


Snuff

by ShadowThorne



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, M/M, Modern Fantasy, Prostitution, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 87,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThorne/pseuds/ShadowThorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The black market has run the city for far too long and a young detective decides it's time for things to change, but he'll need inside help if he's going to put an end to the largest illegal slave trader around. His help comes in the form of an abused, but not broken man who's time may be running short. Rated for violence, language and sexual encounters. Ichi/Shiro. Grimm/Shiro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before reading, I would like to warn everybody that this is another story of darker themes. The elements at play are not kind. That being said, there are no main character deaths. While reading, keep in mind the dates listed. Actual numbers aren't really that important, but the order of events is. It's pretty self explanatory, though.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

**••• A shady neighborhood known as The Shallows on the east side of the city : 1 year ago •••**  
  
The dull smack of a fist against flesh resounded through the dimly lit corridor, really more of a covered alleyway than anything. The air around them was dank, smelling more of earth than of outside. Water dripped from somewhere in the dark, a steady, low patter. Was it raining outside?  
  
The bare bulb that swung gently from it’s cord in the center of the room didn’t flicker, but it seemed to as he stumbled backward, bare back hitting the gritty brick wall of the holding cell he found himself in with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. All around him, the other hapless figures, each bound in their own set of chains, were silent, huddled against the back wall of their prison where they hoped to avoid attention. A meager cot sat askew, on it’s side and pushed out into the middle of the small space he was allowed to call his own. He vaguely registered walking into it, his bare shins finding the metal leg, as he stumbled away from the wall and his vision blurred around the edges.  
  
His own panting breaths were all that he heard, not even the scuffle of hard-soled shoes coming toward him on the rough concrete of the floor. The snarling that had rode those breaths was silent now, knocked away, but he couldn’t really focus on it enough to realize he’d already lost this fight, that his fate had already been sealed.  
  
The next thing to register upon his clouded senses was the cold, hard ground as his bare knees jarred against it, the floor suddenly much closer than only moments ago. Blood was thick in his mouth, dripping down his chin as he panted. It stained his teeth and tasted of bitter iron. So, so heavy, he was exhausted, could hardly keep his eyes open. He started to collapse further, his body falling forward, and only one arm seemed willing to work fast enough to reach out and brace his body before he could hit the floor.  
  
But the floor didn’t come, his fingertips just barely brushed it. He gasped a sharp sound, brows furrowing as a big hand fisted in his hair and yanked back, jerking his head up so that he was given an all too close view of his tormentor’s face. What he had once thought to be handsome features were twisted with rage, with anger. The eyes drilling into his own were bluer than anything he’d ever seen, but they weren’t cold. Far from it. Fire seethed in oceanic orbs. White teeth bared in a vicious sneer as that big fist, the one not tangled in his hair, was raised again, fading in and out at the edge of his vision.  
  
Then all went black.  
  
 **••• Special Detective Force; 15th Precinct. Located in a small suburb to the west of a large city : 64 days ago •••**  
  
“We can’t do that. We’ve tried.” The commissioner shook his head, arms crossed over his burly chest as he leaned back against his desk. “Do you know who he is?”  
  
“Think about it though!” His voice was just as fiery as his proposition was. Heat simmered just below the surface. It was the reason Ichigo had landed this job in the first place, why he’d been selected out of the rest of his class from the academy; that fire. “How better to tone down all the illegal happenings in the trade than to take out those at the very top?”  
  
The police commissioner shook his head again, but didn’t refute what his detective said. Ichigo was right. The black market had been a problem within the human slave trade for far too long, but there was just no way to kill it at it’s source. They’d taken down dozens of small time dealers, but that hardly even put a dent in all that was going on. If they could get enough evidence on the man Ichigo was suggesting they investigate they could tear apart an entire division of the black market. It would be the largest bust in generations. But the problem was that the man Ichigo wanted them to turn their sights on was virtually untouchable. He had been under investigation before and had always come out clean. They knew he wasn’t. They knew he was as crooked as they came. He hunted and selected other people ruthlessly, picking and choosing whoever struck his fancy. He was the biggest name in human trafficking in all the city and the surrounding areas. Hell, he was even starting to reach the top of the charts, reaching numbers previously reserved for the other races. But they couldn’t get the tangible evidence they needed to catch him.  
  
“Ichigo, what you’re suggesting just isn’t feasible... We’ve tried before.” The commissioner sighed, rubbed at his forehead as if talking about all this was only giving him a headache, before crossing his arms again. “Last year, we finally got a warrant to search his place. All of his slaves -human and non- have papers, Ichigo, there’s nothing we can do.”  
  
“They’re counterfeit!” Ichigo threw his hands out, climbing to his feet to stand on level with his superior.  
  
“Yeah, probably,” The commissioner fired back, “but they’re damn good and we don’t have a way to prove it.”  
  
Ichigo paused, his mind in overdrive. He would take this bastard down. He wouldn’t stop until he put an end to his operation. The slave trade business was nasty enough on it’s own, but that was legal and there was nothing they could do about it. The black market just made a bad situation even worse. The things that happened to the poor people caught up in it’s trade...they were subject to the worst of things while their slavers and owners grew rich.  
  
The young man brought his hand up, running his fingers through his spiky, riotous orange hair as he paced a short path from one side of the room, to the edge of the desk and back. “Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place...” When the commissioner started to interrupt him, he held his hand up and motioned for the older gentleman to give him a moment. “We need to approach it from a different angle, one he’s not prepared to deal with. We need to get at him from inside.” Then he paused, head snapping up and around, brown eyes hard and glinting under raised brows as he looked at the commissioner. “What if we could get one of his slaves to testify against him?”  
  
“You think we haven’t tried that?” The man again shook his head. “None of them’ll talk, not when it’ll bring them punishment, death even. He trains his slaves well...”  
  
Ichigo curled his lip at that last part, but he wasn’t willing to give this up. “But what if we could? What if we could find one that would talk?”  
  
“Well, if it’s a legal slave, the court will laugh and toss you out.” The commissioner sighed, raising a skeptical brow at his detective. “If you can prove that it’s not, that his or her papers are fake, then you might have a chance...”  
  
“But.” The older man held up a single finger as Ichigo started to speak, silencing his detective. “You still have the problem of finding one that will talk, and that’s only going to happen if you can get one of them alone, without him in the room and that’s not going to happen. He’ll never leave an officer alone with any of his slaves, or probably even any of his crew members and business partners.”  
  
Ichigo grit his teeth, hearing the truth in that. No one in their right mind would speak out while not relatively protected from their owner. It would be suicide. And the man there were after was far to clever to let them get away with alone time in his slave hold.   
  
The young detective was quiet a moment, thinking. “So send someone under cover.”  
  
The commissioner pinched the bridge of his nose. He really did want to end this operation as badly as Ichigo, but he’d been over all this many times before. “I’ve tried that before...he recognized the cop. He knows all of us like it’s his job. He recognized the agent and he put a quick end to the investigation. He’s got a lot of power Ichigo, a lot of money... He doesn’t have to play by the rules. That agent’s lucky he’s alive.”  
  
“Send me.”  
  
“What?” The commissioner paused, brow arching as he stared at his detective.  
  
“I’ll do it.” Ichigo repeated, “I sit behind a desk in this office all day, he wont recognize someone who never conducts investigations outside the station’s walls.”  
  
“You’re not trained for this kind of investigation, Ichigo... You’re not a field agent...”  
  
“So train me!” Ichigo insisted, his temper fiery and demanding.  
  
His boss remained still, quiet, as he looked upon the younger, seeing determination and fire in brown eyes, a driven need to end this. Then, his frown deepening, he straightened away from the desk and rounded it. He pulled open a drawer on the file cabinet that sat against the back wall of his office and quickly flipped through the files. Seeming to find what he wanted, he proceeded to pull the entire drawer from the cabinet and dropped the whole thing onto his desk with a solid and resounding thud. All the files within were bound together with paperclips and wrapped in a blank, off-white file folders, coded by the dates of individual incidents.   
  
“The case is yours.” The older man said, voice steely, low. “Don’t screw up.”  
  
A lopsided but determined grin tugged across Ichigo’s features as he picked up the thick file. He looked up at his superior expectantly and the man sighed. “Dismissed.” Ichigo tucked the folder under his arm and started to turn away, but paused when the older man continued. “And Ichigo? Catch this son of a bitch.”  
  
“Yes sir.” Brown eyes lit with fire. The kid had guts, the commissioner would give him that much. If anyone was going to find a way to make this work, it would be Ichigo. Maybe a fresh, young mind was just what they needed to finally close this case.  
  
A few minutes later, Ichigo sat at his own desk, papers spread across the normally clean surface and the drawer settled on the floor beside his chair. Situated directly in front of him on the top of his extensive stack he was working through, in a full color print, chiseled features and blue eyes glared with a malicious amusement. In his hands, he read about the most recent incident involving one Mr. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez; suspected black marketeer and head of the illegal slave trade.  
  
 **••• A large estate located near The Shallows : 362 days ago •••**  
  
The walls were white all around, the floors a glazed brick that matched. The bars at the front of each cell, lining the isle between the two rows were pretty and polished to nearly silver, carved and shaped to look delicate and far less ugly than they really were. The lights were surprisingly bright, but not harsh; clean, clinical.  
  
He grunted a weak sound as he was thrown into an empty cell. He landed on his feet, but it didn’t last. Stumbling, he reached out to brace himself against the wall to the right of the cell, before sliding to it’s base, unable to keep his legs under him. His head lolled to the side, thudding lightly against the wall he leaned on as he tried to keep a wary eye on his captor.  
  
The gate slammed shut with the slide of smooth wheels and the clank of solid metal. The lock clicked shut with a hollow, condemning sound and the young man weakly bared his red stained teeth up at the man staring down at him.  
  
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” Was the only response to his attempted aggression, the voice low and growling. The bigger man sported the evidence of the smaller’s struggle, though the split lip no longer bled and the bruising had nearly faded from sight. “If I didn’t know people would pay big bucks for a night with you, I’d say you weren’t worth the effort.”  
  
The grin that twisted deceivingly handsome features made bile rise in the younger’s throat, his stomach roiling with the promise held in those words. When the larger turned and left, his quiet footsteps fading into the distance before a door was shut and blocked all traces of the noise, he attempted to climb to his feet again. Back to the wall, hands flatted against the cool, smooth surface, he tried to push himself up.  
  
He barely made it, panting and biting back the groaning that wanted to bubble forth from his throat. The cage he was in seemed to spin. The colors were wrong and everything smelled like a freshly extinguished candle. His stomach heaved against what it’d been filled with: not food, for sure, something that would keep him quiet long enough to transport him. whatever it had been was starting to wear off now, starting to work the rest of the way through his system.  
  
He gagged, doubling over and collapsing back to his knees. Blood tinted saliva trailed in a thin, sticky string from his chin. Reaching up with one hand, he wiped the backs of pale fingers across his lips, hardly taking note of the red that stood out so sickly against his colorless complexion.  
  
“Shhh...”  
  
He jolted, clouded eyes going wide as he looked for the source of the shushing voice. He’d realized there were others around him, in the very back of his mind at least, but he hadn’t been expecting any of them to speak. Maybe it was because their jailor wasn’t around.  
  
“Relax...” The person, a woman, said, and the young man lifted his head slightly to look into the cell across the isle from his. She gave him a small smile, a sort of sad understanding in her gaze. He gagged again, stomach clenching painfully and throat burning. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the cool floor and grit his teeth as his eyes watered, agony racing up his spine.   
  
“You mustn’t fight it...” The woman continued, “You’ll only make it worse, last longer...” She pointed when he looked back up at her, indicating behind where he knelt in the middle of the floor in his cage.   
  
He turned to look over his shoulder, the room spinning all the faster for his movements. Behind him, tucked away in one corner, a small sink and toilet sat. Along the opposite wall, pressed into the back corner, a small but blanketed cot rested. The sheets looked clean, new even. He frowned.  
  
Then his stomach heaved again and he scrambled toward the toilet, making it just in time for his body to finish rejecting what had been forced into him. He retched until his entire body shook, until nothing but a white, chalky substance crawled up his throat. He spit it out, gagging and fighting back tears as it burned.  
  
“There should be a glass sitting beside the soap on the sink...” The woman said gently, quietly, after he’d finally fallen still, head resting on his crossed arm, still hanging over the toilet. She’d clearly seen this happen before and none of her attempted help was a comfort to him.  
  
He sat still for a moment more, panting as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regain some sense of balance. After that moment, he slowly, shakily pulled himself away from the toilet and found the plastic cup she’d been talking about. It was only then that he realized how horribly thirsty he was. It didn’t even matter that his mouth tasted like vomit and chemicals, he downed the first cupful of luke warm water in one go.  
  
He was dehydrated, and his stomach was completely empty now, starving now that it realized it had nothing in it. How long had it been? More than a day, he knew that much just by what he’d seen of his captor’s healing bruises. Several, probably. But he couldn’t remember them, couldn’t remember anything about them. He could remember the first few hours, he thought. Bits and pieces, anyway; the swinging light bulb, imposing figures, chains, the smell and sound of rain. Then darkness. Maybe he could remember the light patter of cold rain on his heated, bruised skin...maybe, he wasn’t sure. But that was it.  
  
After a second glass of clean water, he filled the cup again and this time only took a sip as he finally turned back toward the front of his cell. His body still trembled and the whole area still tried to spin as he moved, but it was all much more bearable now. Slowly, carefully straightening, he moved along the solid wall beside the sink, one hand trailing along it, and made his way unsteadily toward the front of the cage, where the only entrance and exit was. Aside from the front wall, which was made up entirely of thin but sturdy metal bars, the rest of the space was of painted, sanded concrete; the other three walls, the floor, even the ceiling. The floor sloped ever so slight toward the middle, where a small, grated drain was located. The entire cell was clearly meant to be practical; easy to clean, easy to maintain, impossible to break free from or destroy. He guessed it was even underground, since there were no windows and the only light source came from narrow florescent bulbs that ran the length of the isle-way between the two rows of cells. And everything was white, sterile, clean.  
  
He shook his head in denial of all he was seeing as pale brows furrowed and his chest heaved in a ragged breath. He knew not where he was, but it hardly mattered: he knew exactly what was going on. He’d heard stories, almost everybody had. This kind of thing was becoming more common and there was no way to stop it. Around him, in the other cages, were slaves and now, he too was meant to be turned into a slave.  
  
“Wh-where are we..?” His voice came out a thin, raspy sound, further testament to how long he’d been left drugged unconscious before being brought to wherever he was now.  
  
The woman in the cell across from his started to answer, but the heavy door at the end of the corridor slammed open with an unnecessary amount of force and a loud bang. She jerked away from the bars and quietly slipped backward to sit upon the cot in her cell, eyes trained more on the ground than on who approached.   
  
“You’re in my humble abode.” The loud, and now familiar, voice boomed. There was a smile there, even though the big man was still out of sight. “Welcome. I hope you’ll get along with my other playthings.”  
  
The big man with the blue eyes drew closer, his footsteps confident, his strides long. The newest addition to his collection backed up, eyes slowly widening with an uncontrollable terror as the plastic cup fell from shaking fingers to spill water across the floor. But he didn’t cower, not like the others always did as the powerful slave trader walked down the corridor. No, instead he only backed away from the cell door, and stood in the very center of the floor, his bare feet finding the cold grate as the spilled water trickled down it.  
  
His captor came into view, a grin on his handsome, angular features and a tray in one hand. He chuckled when the strangest set of eyes he’d ever seen lit on the food he carried. No doubt his newest addition was hungry, it’d been nearly three days since they’d caught him, which meant longer still since he’d eaten. And he’d given them quite the chase, too.  
  
The big man wavered the tray a bit, careful not to spill anything, but still in a teasing manner. Rather than follow it’s motions, those odd eyes snapped back up to find his features again, fire in their depths still.  
  
The man’s glacial eyes narrowed slightly, the bridge of his straight nose crinkling with the small sneer that twisted his lips. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, the man known as Grimmjow unlocked the cell door and slid it open, his intent to feed his new pet.  
  
A small growl crawled from the smaller male’s throat, an odd distortion to it. He bared his teeth and, much more balanced now than he had been when he’d been thrown into his cage, he charged his captor. He was smaller than the slave trader, lighter and more wiry, less muscled bulk, but he was quick and conniving and certainly not weak.  
  
The tray of fresh food clattered to the glazed brick of the isle-way floor as Grimmjow slammed back into the bars of the female slave’s cell. The big man grunted as he connected with the door, and again when a well thrown fist connected with his solar plexus. But as the smaller male made to turn and flee, headed for the entrance to the slave corridor, Grimmjow fisted a big hand into shoulder length, white locks.  
  
The sharp yank to his long hair nearly threw him backwards to the floor. He bared his teeth in pain and fear and aggression; an animal-like expression and reaction. One hand wound around the trader’s wrist as he twisted, tried to get out of the hold, but he didn’t go anywhere.  
  
A big fist found his jaw. The crunch of broken bone rang through the corridor, followed by a shrill sound of pain. The smaller keened a high pitched sound, hands going to his jaw as he tried to pull away. His eyes stung, vision blurred through welling tears. He didn’t make it far before his captor snagged hold of him again. A big hand clapped over the back of his neck, fingers curled in a grip so tight he was sure the big man was trying to rip his spine out.  
  
He stilled on instinct, breathing through his pain, his hands trembling where they clutched at his jaw. The slave trader’s second hand grasped at his wrists and a pitiful whimper crawled up his throat.  
  
“Dammit.” Grimmjow grumbled. When the smaller resisted, he yanked, over powering the now injured man. “Let me see it.”  
  
His voice was demanding, rumbling, as he pulled the second pale hand away. Other hand still grasping the back of his new slaves’ neck, he ran his thumb over the quickly discoloring jaw line and growled before his fingers closed around the lad’s chin.   
  
The smaller gasped a short, pained sound, features twisting from the harsh grip. The next sound to leave him was a choked scream as, with a swift jerk of motion, the slave trader relocated the smaller’s jaw, then pushed him back into his cell, threw the door closed, and stormed away. The food was left smeared across the floor, the smells sickening when coupled with the pain lighting his jaw and making his head ache.  
  
He sat, huddled in the corner of his cage for how long, he knew not, before the door at the end of the corridor was opened again. This time, there was no loud bang or confident footsteps, only the low squeak of hinges and a quietly whistled tune.   
  
“Ahh, you must be the one Grimmjow has been so excited about these past few days.” Another man paused before the locked cell, one that the new edition had yet to see. He was tall, thin and rather pretty for a man, but still distinctly male. His eyes were an odd yellow that caught the light behind thick framed glasses, a color most humans didn’t sport. His hair hung to his shoulders in perfectly straight, well kept, pink locks.  
  
A familiar ring of keys was pulled from the depths of the man’s pocket, jingling as he found the correct one and inserted it into the door’s lock. Understandably frightened, the young man let out a distorted, almost watery sound that resembled a growl as he backed up further into the cell.  
  
A slight smirk tilted thin lips. “I can assure you that I am not nearly so rough as Grimmjow.” The pink haired man spoke, his voice a well cultured, quiet tone. “You may call me Szayel, and clearly Grimmjow cares more for you than you believe, as he’s sent me to fix up your injury.”  
  
He pointed, motioning toward the slave’s bruising and swollen jaw with a single thin finger. The younger lad frowned, his hands still framing his injured mandible and his upper lip curling away from white teeth.  
  
“It may come as a surprise, but I’m a rather skilled doctor, you’ve nothing to fear.” As Szayel spoke, he closed the door behind himself and crept further into the cell. To his surprise, the freshly caught slave didn’t continue to back away, nor cower, but instead looked at him with a steely, narrowed gaze, perhaps even the tiniest hint of curiosity.  
  
When Szayel began to pull the young man’s hands away from his face once more, there was little resistance. He directed the smaller to sit, and he knelt in front of the cot to get a closer look at his injuries. “Grimmjow has expressed that he likes your voice, but I can already tell he’s done nothing that could hinder your speech.”   
  
The doctor spoke has he worked, seemingly un-put off that the man he tended to didn’t respond. With firm, but almost gentle motions -or perhaps clinical and precise was a more accurate description- he grasped the smaller’s chin and turned his head, tilting it this way and that as he inspected the wounds. The doctor shook his head slightly, tsking as he made a prognosis and got to work on fixing said ailments. “This may sting.” He warned, just before sliding the nail of his forefinger down the length of the man’s jaw.  
  
Pale flesh parted under the light touch and a breath hissed between the young man’s teeth as a single drop of brilliant red streaked from the gash to track down his jawline. The doctor smirked, a small chuckle slipped between parted lips as he pinched his thumb and forefinger together very near the new wound. As if drawing a string from the slice in pale flesh, he carefully, slowly eased his closed fingers away. There was nothing between his fingers, but the slave froze as he felt something tug against the very bone of his jaw, making his teeth ache like there was too much pressure being put on them. In the next instant, the doctor’s thumb smoothed over the fresh wound, unnaturally cool to the touch, and the cut was once more sealed below healthy, undamaged skin.   
  
Ashen brows rose above widened eyes as the captured man’s fingertips tentatively brushed the area. His fingers came away clean, no trace of blood, and the touch to his injured jaw was hardly more than a dull ache now.  
  
“You’re...” There was surprise in his oddly distorted voice, for he’d never heard of a human that could use magic, which meant...  
  
“Yes, I am of mixed blood, like yourself. It seems, however, that I gained more of my human parent’s traits, while you retain the overall body size of a human, but not the coloring.” Szayel answered, a sly smirk on his effeminate features as he looked the man over. Seeing as the pale lad wore only a skimpy strip of cloth wrapped around his waist like the other slaves, he was granted quite a complete view.   
  
Lean muscle was covered in nearly flawless skin, so pale as to be very nearly white. A few bruises were beginning to fade, the left overs of his initial capture and the fight he put up against the much larger slave trader who’d been the one to claim ownership of him, but there was little Szayel could do about superficial marks and they would heal in time. The man was young, his early twenties, probably, but he was far from ignorant. A dread knowing shone in his odd eyes, their colors reversed; dark where they should have been white, the irises a fiery, cold liquid gold a few shades lighter than the color of his own eyes. White hair hung in silken strands about his shoulders, messy and tangled from his struggles and the less than comfortable handling during transportation. His nails were dark, but unchipped, leading Szayel to believe they were also a trait retained from his nonhuman parentage, which meant they were likely a bit sharper than a normal human’s as well. “Have you a name?”  
  
The mixblood hesitated in answering, before he nodded. “Shirosaki.”  
  
“I’m guessing you haven’t many magical abilities, have you, Shirosaki? Or you would have used them to attempt escape by now. A shame for you, but to our gain.” The pink haired man chuckled an almost maddening laugh and stood, reminding the newly captured lad that this man was not to be trusted any more so than the one he worked for.  
  
His job done, Szayel backed away and let himself out of the cell once more, pausing for a few parting words, before he made his way back down the corridor to leave. “I can see why Grimmjow demanded upon keeping you. Your exotic looks shall indeed fetch a high price.”  
  
When the door at the end of the corridor swayed shut with a quiet sound, Shirosaki was left with nothing but silence where he sat on the edge of the cot that had been placed in what he realized was meant to be his new home; a bare, jail cell like cage.  
  
 **••• Special Detective Force; 15th Precinct : 44 days ago •••**  
  
Ichigo pulled the protective ear plugs away, lowering his arm back to his side. The echos of gunshots rang through the large, underground room, despite that sound deadening barriers lined the walls. The target he’d been aiming at wavered slightly with the aftershocks of the bullets fired through it; nearly a perfect score. Again.  
  
“I told you I already know how to shoot a gun.” The detective deadpanned, sending the man that had been assigned to whip him into field agent shape as quickly as possible a look that could have killed. “Besides, I wont be able to carry a gun with me when I enter Jaegerjaquez’s establishment.”  
  
The trainer grunted, still looking at the target with some degree of impressed astonishment in his light eyes. “Ok, not beginner’s luck after all. They really do teach you guys a thing or two in the detective academy.”  
  
“They really do...” Ichigo refrained from continuing his mocking and sarcastic thoughts, and instead slid the empty clip from the handgun and laid both pieces on the waist height barrier he stood behind. “So what do you think? Can we get to some real training now?”  
  
“Fine fine, you win.” The trainer turned and made his way toward the exit to the shooting range, the young detective following behind. “The chief is keeping this new case of yours real quiet, but he’s let me in on most of the basics of it so that I can better train you...”   
Ichigo nodded a slight motion. Only a few people knew about the case he’d taken on, or that it had been reopened at all, and he’d helped select who would be let in on it and who wouldn’t. Everyone else would be conducting business as usual, going about their police raids and scouring the city. Everything would run normal and uninterrupted in the effort to keep from tipping Jaegerjaquez off that anything was amiss. The matter was just too delicate to take chances on, too important and too risky. They didn’t even know for sure that he’d make it through the door.  
  
So, can you do it?”  
  
“I think so, yes.” Ichigo’s voice was full of confidence and determination. He’d already spent almost three weeks studying and planning. He’d dug up everything he could possibly find about this guy. Jaegerjaquez seemed to have his hands in just about everything when it came to illegal. The slave trade was his largest and most obvious endeavor, but there were a number of other things; drug pedaling, street prostitution, clubs. He owned the largest brothel on the East side. It was located in a shady neighborhood called The Shallows and it seemed to be where he conducted most of his business at. What better way to keep your clients and partners happy and compliant than to stick their choice of meat in their lap while discussing objectives and business. Add in a little alcohol and it was no wonder Jaegerjaquez was getting so filthy rich and powerful. The man had just about everything and anyone he could ever need tucked away in his pocket, probably even a few dirty cops. He was very nearly invincible. Which was exactly why Ichigo was the one going undercover; he sat behind a desk all day, never showing himself in public. Plus he was new, someone the other branches, including the actual police force, wouldn’t recognize.  
  
Ichigo suspected there was someone behind the scenes helping him out. There had to be. He owned and controlled far too much for one man to oversee. And he controlled it all with an iron fist, it seemed that none of his grunts ever moved against him. It all moved far too smoothly for it to be just one man. Ichigo wondered if perhaps the handsome, powerful man was as much a figurehead as he was truly powerful.  
  
“You think?” The trainer arched a brow and looked over.  
  
“Yeah, well. It’s not for lack of knowledge or intel... But the whole plan hinges on being able to find a slave that will talk. And it needs to be a paperless one, and not broken to the point where he’s too afraid and wont talk. Oh, has to be mentally stable enough for his or her word to hold up in court, too... Do you have any idea what he does to them? Might be hard pressed to find someone that meets the criteria...”  
  
The trainer grimaced, the point beyond understood. “If you find one, that poor thing’s going to deserve a medal when this is all over.”  
  
“You remember you said that,” Ichigo chuckled as they entered a different room, where an instructor was teaching some of the newer recruits a few hand to hand combat techniques. “when I take this bastard down, you’re going to owe my little helper an award.”  
  
The trainer clapped him over the shoulder, a smile on his grizzled features. Just like the commissioner had told him; Ichigo’s confidence and attitude were contagious. Perhaps the fiery young man really was the one who would finally uproot the illegal slave trade and deal the black market a decisive blow.  
  
 **••• The large estate located near The Shallows : 350 days ago •••**  
  
Often, slaves were led out of the hold, as it had been referred to by those that owned and operated the building they were located in. It was almost always the big, blue haired man that came for them. Sometimes he would bring with him others, whether a single person or a small group, and they would walk the corridor and point and talk and ask questions. Grimmjow always seemed like a relatively good host, normal even, but it was a mask. There was no getting around what he was doing, what he did for a living, and maybe the men and women he showed off his slaves to went along with it because they’d seen his temper in action before and so knew to act just a respectable and well mannered despite the grotesqueness of what they were shopping for.  
  
Ultimately, a slave -or sometimes multiple- would be selected and Grimmjow would escort his customers back through the door at the end of the corridor. Shirosaki didn’t know where they went after that, he’d never seen beyond that door and when he’d been brought in, he’d been drugged too heavily to remember any of it. But after a few minutes, Grimmjow would return. He would let the selected slave out and he would need little to no words or threats or even actions to get the slave to follow him from their cell and then from the hold.  
  
Hours would go by before the door was opened again, and the slave would be returned to his or her cell, disheveled and worn out and smelling of sex. And no one would say a word, every single slave silent as they sat in their cages and didn’t look up. No praise or payment would be given, nothing to indicate that said slave had done their job well, but on occasion, Grimmjow would stand before their cell and say something in private before unwrapping a small item to show the slave. That was the only time Shirosaki ever saw any glimmer of reaction from any of the other people around him. After the first couple times it’d happened, he had waited for the slave trader to leave again before asking the woman in the cell across from his what it was all about.  
  
She’d smiled at him, and, her voice quiet in the silent room as she moved toward the front of her cell, said, “When a client decides he or she greatly enjoys a particular worker, sometimes they become regular customers and when that happens, they often buy little things for us. Jewelry or little trinkets they like to see us wear. Master Jaegerjaquez usually holds onto them for us, and when the client arrives, he leaves them in the room we’ll be using so that we can put them on for the client’s enjoyment.”  
  
“So they buy ya things... that’re for themselves ta enjoy...” There was an oddly disturbing undercurrent to that, Shirosaki thought. It was strange to him, obsessive, perhaps. The woman had simply smiled and nodded.  
  
Almost always, the people the big slaver was escorting around would stop before Shirosaki’s cage. The pale man would curl his lip in a threatening and vicious, if not slightly terrified, expression. Unlike the other slaves, he didn’t play the coy or obedient card, he matched their stares with as fiery, burning of one that he could possibly muster. More often than not, his returned attention was enough to get them to move along. On the few occasions that it wasn’t, and they inquired about him, Grimmjow would grin almost proudly and inform them that he’d yet to be properly trained and wasn’t actually up for rent just yet, newly acquired, he told them. Shiro always wondered how long it would be until he experienced whatever training was. It made bile rise in his stomach and his chest feel tight.  
  
Sometimes Grimmjow would come alone, and he would go strait to one slave or another’s cell. There would be no forewarning or those few extra minutes to prepare like when a client selected someone. He would unlock the cage right then and they would follow him out, through the door. They never protested, never fought against him, nor argued or even said anything other than ‘yes sir.’, as they were led from the slave hold.  
  
Later, they would be led back to their cell by someone lower in ranking than the slaver himself, while Grimmjow was absent. The fatigue and smell the slave would carry always made it obvious what Grimmjow was using them for. It seemed he didn’t mind sampling his own merchandise on occasion. He had his favorites though: there were those that he never touched and then there were those that had been under him enough to know just what he liked.  
  
But he was always humane enough to at least select slaves that had not been used by clients that night. As twisted and despicable as the man was, he had some sort of code within him. Shiro rarely saw the big man raise a hand against anyone other than Shiro himself. He suspected it was because the others were so calm and compliant with him. They’d learned. They didn’t resist any more.  
  
One night however, nearly two weeks after Shiro had been brought to the slave trader’s estate -not that he knew how long it had been- things went a little bit differently. The woman that occupied the cell across from his own, the only slave in the hold to ever utter a word to him, had been selected by a client. She couldn’t have been any older than Shiro himself, maybe even younger, but with the body she had it was easy to see why she’d ended up on the prostitution side of the slave business. And it was easy to see why she had quite the cliental base.  
  
After hardly even a half hour that night, however, she was returned to her cell in rush. Grimmjow escorted her back, a big hand wrapped bruisingly tight around her upper arm as he half dragged her along. The slave trader seemed particularly unhappy, if the slamming of her barred door and the speed with which he turned and left the hold once more was any indication.  
  
She went straight to the small sink in the back of her own cell, but despite that her one hand had been held over the side of her face, Shiro had seen the ugly, darkening mark along her cheekbone and the brilliant splash of red that stained her bottom lip. Tears streaked her features and made her large, normally bright eyes look pitiful and puffy.  
  
Shiro edged to the front of his cell as the echos of the door at the end of the hall died down, announcing that the slaves were alone in the hold again. He wrapped pale fingers around the bars, watching as the young woman tried to tidy herself up. Only minutes later, tears were still rolling down her bruised cheeks when the door was slammed open again and Grimmjow stormed back through, just as unhappy as before.  
  
“Nel.” He barked, calling her away from the back of her cell and toward the front. She desperately tried to compose herself, eyes wide and watery as they paused on Shiro’s own before panning back toward the floor as Grimmjow stopped before her. “You’re coming with me. You have a client to please and lost money to make up for.”  
  
“Y-yes, sir...” She said obediently and moved toward the cage door as he pulled the ring of keys from his pocket. He stood almost directly in front of Shiro, and the pale young lad hardly thought before he reacted. He didn’t even know what had happened, but clearly the woman needed at least a few minutes to recover. It was just cruel to throw her back to the man who’d done this to her.  
  
“Hey!” He snarled, reaching through the bars of his cage to snag hold of the big slave trader. His black nails caught golden skin, not quite as harmlessly as a full blooded human’s would have. A few drops of red left the small, slashing parts in smooth skin. “Leave her alone.”  
  
The woman’s eyes widened as she stared at Shiro passed their owner. Grimmjow didn’t move, turned away from Shiro and still facing Nel. He didn’t look down at the shallow gashes left across his forearm and his features twisted into an outraged baring of teeth that only the female slave saw.   
  
“N-no, please, sir, I don’t mind...please ignore him...he doesn’t understand...” She pleaded on Shirosaki’s behalf. The look that flashed through fiery blue eyes silenced her as she clapped a hand over her own mouth. Everyone knew that speaking out of turn or going against the slaver’s word was punishable by whatever Grimmjow deemed fit.  
  
Because of his newest worker’s insubordinate actions, Grimmjow let slide his more experienced slave’s. “It’s time he’s learned then.” He rumbled in reply as he turned to stare down the smaller male.  
  
Ashen brows furrowed over wide eyes as Shirosaki took a single step back and away. Trapped and locked away, he could only watch as the bigger man selected the key to his cell and pulled the barred door open. It slid back on smooth tracks with the low hiss of metal wheels, and was pushed shut again as Grimmjow stepped past it.  
  
Shiro backed up further, a low growl emitting through the small space of his concrete prison, but there wasn’t far to go and his back hit the cold, bare wall as Grimmjow stepped up in front of him. When the big man reached out toward him, Shiro ducked to one side, desperately trying to evade the man. Strong fingers closed around his wrist so tightly he honestly thought the delicate bones there would fracture. He was half thrown toward the front of the cell, stumbling into the bars and making them rattle. The unlocked door slid open a fraction under his weight and movement.  
  
He made a grab for it, trying to yank it open and find his freedom, but just as he did, a big hand fisted into his hair and pulled back, jerking him away from the door. He grunted a harsh sound, air fleeing his lungs as he spun around and slammed back into the bars with a cruel strength. The metal ground against his spin and ribs as Grimmjow leaned his heftier weight against the smaller man, bringing his deceivingly handsome features close to the ghostly pale face before him. Shiro bared his teeth in the big man’s face, hands closing around Grimmjow’s wrist and black nails drawing thin, welted lines as the slave trader wrapped one hand around Shiro’s pale throat.  
  
The colorless man struggled and snarled and growled, his teeth bared and his features pinched with fear and rage and threat and pain. He refused to let this be an easy fight. He wasn’t a slave, he wasn’t someone else’s property and he refused to act like he was. The people that had kidnapped him would have to beat what they wanted out of him.  
  
And that’s just what Grimmjow did.  
  
The bigger man hardly uttered a sound while the two struggled, and none of the other slaves dared make a noise as they cowered in their cells. They didn’t even look up, but instead adamantly turned their gazes away. Only Nel, the woman that occupied the cell across the isle, would be witness to what would happen as she stood near the doorway of her own cage.  
  
Gasping a harsh, hindered breath of air, the pale man eventually quit trying to pry the fingers wrapped around his throat away as his normally white color started turning bluish with the lack of air. Instead, his hands braced against Grimmjow’s muscled chest, pushing with all the strength he could conjure as he tried to get the big man off of him. His fingers curled in desperation, clutching at the shirt the bigger man wore, shredding fabric and scraping at the smooth skin below.  
  
It was a pointless endeavor. Grimmjow hardly even seemed to put effort into overpowering the smaller and he stood as if unaffected, his features twisted into an outraged snarl and his livid blue eyes menacing and cold. He made not a sound as he glared into clouding, inverted eyes. Finally, he backed off and let the unwilling slave draw breath when those maddening, off-colored eyes began to roll back and the long fingered hands pushing at him loosened, then fell away all together.  
  
Shiro drew in a ragged, desperate breath as the pressure around his throat fell away and the support holding him upright, albeit harshly, let up. He slid to the ground in an ungraceful heap, bent forward and gasping through his bruising trachea, his hands raising to feel the damage. He wasn’t given long to recover before he was once more yanked to his feet, head wrenched back painfully and features twisting with agony. He yelped as he was turned to face the cage door and slammed into it yet again.  
  
Snarling, he braced his hands against the horizontal supports and tried to push, tried to throw the man currently forcing him forward off of himself. A cruel fist found his kidney and a pained sound froze in his lungs. His snarl finally fell away completely when a hand gripped the back of his head and slammed it forward. The blow knocked him off balance, made the room spin and the bars only inches from his face seem to waver like a mirage. The echo of his skull bouncing off metal was sharp in his ears as he stumbled, teetering toward one side rather than making any attempts to get away any more. He was held still and straightened again by rough hands before the cloth that he’d been allowed to keep wrapped around his waist was yanked down and discarded.  
  
Then, a low, gravely voice very near his ear helped to clear his mind again and made his eyes widen with terror and ice slide through his nerves.  
  
“Your test results came back negative the other day.” Grimmjow rumbled in the small space between his features and the slave’s ear. He felt the pale man stiffen under his hands. “You’re not untouchable anymore.”   
  
It was then that Shiro realized that this was going to be more than a simple beating. When one of his captor’s hands settled on his bare hip, burning hot and sickly, and gripped with enough force to leave a hand print, Shirosaki began struggling again, his voice wavering as he pleaded through the dizzying effect of the hit to his cranium. “S-stop! No...get offa me!”  
  
He hardly even realized as hot tears blurred his vision and began streaking his pale, horror stricken features. This couldn’t be happening. He chanted it to himself over and over again. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. The clanking of the bigger man’s belt buckle was like the tole of bell, signaling something far worse than death, something he would have to live with. Pressed harshly against the bars at the front of his cell, naked and trembling and terrified, his wide eyes found Nel staring back at him.  
  
The female slave’s own eyes were equally round, but not nearly so disbelieving as Shirosaki’s. She knew what was to come, she’d known the moment Grimmjow had thrown the pale lad to the front of the cage. It had been obvious, swirling in brilliant blue eyes. Her hands trembled where they covered the lower half of her pretty face and she shook her head slightly, unable to break his gaze. It was the only thing she had to offer him, the closest thing she could come to comforting him. It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could ever be enough.  
  
He screamed as the bigger man pressed against his back and cruelly breached him in one, harsh thrust -unprepared and inexperienced and never before taken by another man- and Nel finally squeezed her eyes shut against the scene. But there was no blocking out the sounds.  
  
The bigger man’s grunts and snarls accompanied Shiro’s pleads and screams. He did nothing to hold back his fear and his pain as the slave trader thrust into him, the harsh sound of skin against skin echoing through the space of his cell and through his mind. Each thrust forced his body up against the bars of his cage. The unlocked door rattled with the force of it, but the grip along his hips was far too strong for him to pull free, to get away and perhaps that was the most soul crushing thought of the whole affair.   
  
His cage was finally unlocked, and he still couldn’t escape.  
  
Eventually, his screams turned into pitiful, raw cries. Then nothing but whimpers and sobs crawled from his bruised throat. Blood trickled down the inside of his legs, smearing his backside and his teeth clenched along his bottom lip so tightly it would later require the doctor’s attention. The coppery tang in his mouth did nothing to distract him as fire raced up his spine and the slave trader’s hot, hard cock tore into him but offered no pleasure.  
  
When Grimmjow was finally done, he threw the slave aside, letting the smaller man drop to ground in the middle of the concrete floor and tugged his jeans back into place. As he left, locking the cage door behind him, Shiro buried his face in shaking hands, near silent sobs wracking his pain stiffened form. He didn’t bother trying to get up, to pull himself from the floor or clean up or replace what sufficed as his clothing. He simply lay there, abused and defiled and turned into someone else’s property, another man’s plaything. He’d been marked in a way he couldn’t scrub clean, in a way that would never heal, and there was no getting back what had just been taken from him.  
  
Before he left, Grimmjow unlocked the cage across from Shiro’s and Nel cowered, but didn’t back away from the front. In a deep, thick growl of a voice, Grimmjow commanded, “Let’s go. You have a job to do.” And the female slave obediently followed him down the corridor, looking back over her shoulder at the pale, limp form on the cement floor.   
  
An hour went by. The pale lad hardly moved, only curling in on himself, a small puddle of leaking fluids and blood trickling down his bare inner thighs. Shirosaki’s tears had stopped, no longer streaking his features or wracking his frame. The cold concrete below him was painfully harsh against the bones of his hip, his shoulder and arm, his ribs, where he lay on his side, but he hardly noticed. His body ached with every breath, a throb that matched the pace of his still furiously beating heart.  
  
Another hour went by before the doctor finally made his appearance. Under orders given to him, there was very little he could do to alleviate any of the poor slave’s pain. When the door rattled slightly, signaling its being drawn open, Shiro stiffened, his eyes almost impossibly wide before they rolled to look in that direction. A shuddering breath left him as he realized it was only the pink haired, mixbreed and not the slave trader.  
  
“Don’t touch me...” He hissed when a slim hand settled along his shoulder, long fingers cold to the touch. He finally tried to push himself more upright, but sharp, lancing pain rocketed up his spine, stealing the air from his lungs and lighting a burning fire in his hips and pelvis. The voicing of his pain came out as a barely there, airy cry.  
  
“He’s always so rough with his things.” Szayel shook his head slightly and sighed, adjusting his glasses. He once more settled elegant hands along the slave, but this time Shiro didn’t protest, nor even try to shrug away.   
  
He let the taller male help him up and lower him back down on his cot instead of the hard ground, where he sat hunched over, stiff and uncomfortable due to his injuries and the brutal handling. When those slim fingers trailed down the side of his face, he curled his upper lip and turned his head away, brows furrowing with less anger and more skittish aggression.  
  
But Szayel merely tugged his head back around to face him again, features close to the slave’s own. His thumb gently swiped across Shiro’s shredded lower lip, clearing away a bit of the drying blood that smeared his chin to better see the self inflicted but accidental wound. The doctor tsked as he saw the damage; the soft skin nearly bitten clean through. The coldness of his fingers seemed nearly icy and almost relieving against the wound.   
  
Since the skin was already sliced open, he skipped that process, seeing as he could already reach within to grab what he needed. As he had before, he went through the motions of carefully drawing out the pain and wounded flesh, like pulling a delicate thread through the eye of a needle. Shiro sat mostly still through it, even attempting to keep his exhausted, traumatized trembling at bay while the magic-user worked. Once done, Szayel again smoothed his thumb over the wound, revealing fresh, smooth skin where a jagged gash had been before.   
  
“There you are,” Still kneeling before the slave, he smiled, the expression some how sickly sweet and verging on derangement, and trailed the tip of his pointer finger down porcelain features. “Can’t have that pretty face of yours all scarred up, now can we?”


	2. Chapter 2

**•••  A private residence, North of the city : 270 days ago •••**  
  
The cottage sat just outside the northern suburb of the city, just passed all the loud city noises and the bright lights, where the countryside started to meld with the convenience of living near town. It was small when compared to the large estates and industrial buildings found within the city itself, but it was certainly spacious and comfortable, with two stories and a long, meandering drive that led up to it’s front gate.  
  
All around them was nearly silent, like hardly a soul in the entire home dared break the peaceful quiet, despite that several maids bustled about, cleaning and whatnot. The office space the powerful home owner and his guest currently lounged in was large, relaxed looking and clean. The chairs meant for guests were wide, plush and of a flawless white fabric. The curtains that hung over the single, large window overlooking the well manicured drive were long and sheer, billowing toward the bottom.  
  
It was essentially only the two of them; the owner of the plush office seated behind a desk, while his guest took a seat in one of the large chairs that faced it. A third figure stood in the room, but he was like a statute; silent, motionless and imposing. The guard wasn’t human and that fact showed in his massive size and strange colorings. The guard’s boss assured everyone the beast had human blood in his linage somewhere, but Grimmjow wasn’t sure he believed it. The creature, obviously of hollow blood, never spoke, hardly seemed to move aside from following the man he protected, and practically glowed in the dark for how pale he was. He carried no weapons, or so it seemed, but a creature that stood nearly eight feet tall and had a maw full of sharp teeth and claws that could tear through flesh with ease didn’t really have much use for weapons.  
  
The second most common race to inhabit the city, hollows were impossible to mistake for humans, despite their mostly humanoid shape. Most of them were massive, towering over the average human by no less than a foot, and their coloring was far more pale, sallow as though the sun didn’t touch them the way it did humans. They could talk, of course, despite that Aizen’s guard never said a word. In fact, most were quite civil, just like most humans. They worked and lived alongside the human race. They raised families and built homes. And, on very rare occasions, they sometimes even bred with humans.  
  
But, just like humans, they weren’t all kind and gentle people, and the ones that weren’t, were down right nasty. The ones on the wrong side of the law raped and stole and murdered. More often than not, that’s how the halfbloods came about; a hollow male that got ahold of a female human. The unfortunate woman didn’t usually survive childbirth if she survived the encounter.   
  
Some of the crooked ones chose to work for people like Aizen and Grimmjow. Doing the bidding of the human criminals was usually easy work. It didn’t take much effort for an eight foot tall creature to overpower a young human, and the men and women that ran the black market paid well.  
  
“I’ve been hearing troubling reports, Grimmjow.” The man seated across the desk from the blue haired trafficker said, his voice calm and his hands crossed in his lap. “Generally, if something isn’t fulfilling it’s purpose, you replace it.”  
  
Relaxed in one of the large, white chairs, his right ankle crossed over his left knee, Grimmjow curled his lip slightly, not appreciating his business partner’s tone nor criticism. “He’s been more stubborn than most, sure, but there is nothing I can’t break.”  
  
“It’s been months and you’re still unable to rent him out? Don’t waste your time on slaves, Grimmjow. If it isn’t making you money, throw it away.”  
  
“He’ll be worth the effort.” Grimmjow all but growled out, brilliant blue eyes ablaze, but he didn’t show outright aggression, didn’t make a move against the man he spoke to. Aizen was one of the few men in the city with as much power and influence as himself, if not more. Generally they were on fairly friendly standings, well, as much so as it was possible for black market dealers to be, at any rate. They didn’t compete against each other, seeing as Grimmjow stuck more toward prostitution and human trafficking while Aizen dealt more in drugs and arms pedaling. Regardless, Aizen liked to push his power around and Grimmjow had slipped up a few years back, which resulted in him being firmly planted just below Aizen on the ranking pole, and owing Aizen quite the debt. “He’s a halfblood, maybe even three quarters.”  
  
“Rare, but not unheard of-” If Aizen was planning anything else to add, he was cut off. Grimmjow had never much cared that he was supposed to be seated lower than the brown haired male, and, by the way he acted most often, no one would have guessed he was lower in rank and power.  
  
“He’ll be worth the challenge. Exotics always fetch a high price, Aizen, and the only human trait he shows is his size.” The seemingly stoic man before him arched a single brow ever so slightly as Grimmjow spoke and a wide, shark grin consumed the big man’s handsome features. “Next time you’re on the east side, stop by. I’ll introduce you.”  
  
Grimmjow took his leave not long after, both business and conversation completed. He was happy enough to leave and return to his own place of comfort, and after the mention of his newest addition and all that the mixbreed was, it seemed that even Aizen had thrown out the idea of getting rid of the troublesome slave. So it was with quite the good mood that he arrived back to his own home, a rare occurrence whenever he left to deal with Aizen.  
  
His good mood wouldn’t last long, however, but for the moment he made his way through his estate with a smirk on his lips and a bright glint to his glacial eyes. He made his way to his own office; less of the traditional style than Aizen’s had been and more of a lounge. A large, plush couch took up on wall, it’s colors dark to contrast the lights of the walls and floor. There was a desk tucked into one corner, but it was far too organized and clean to be used on a regular basis. Hanging on the wall opposite the couch, a large television was mounted, but Grimmjow didn’t do much with it aside from keep track of what was happening within his estate while he wasn’t out and about in the halls.  
  
Walking passed the desk, Grimmjow snagged the remote from it’s top and a small notebook. Dropping onto the couch, he crossed his ankle over his knee and settled the notebook down in his lap as he flipped the large tv on. It went straight to flipping through realtime views of his estate, fed to his office via the cameras he had set up through out the halls, various rooms, the foyer, and of course the slave hold. He flipped the notebook open to reveal smooth, neat handwriting; a list of all the various things that had been accomplished while he was out, as well as things that still needed to be done.  He had rooms that needed to be cleaned and sanitized, beds that needed redressed. And of course slaves that needed the same treatments after having been rented out to clients.  
  
It was then that he happened to look up at the screen hanging before him, just in time for the muted feed to flip to the next camera, but still, he thought he’d caught an awfully unique streak of colorless edge out of the camera’s field in one of the renters halls. The flash of whoever was moving about the halls, leaving one of the rooms, was too quick. It could have easily been anyone, a client or perhaps one of his maids cleaning up after a customer, but blue eyes narrowed anyway, a gut feeling telling him it wasn’t so mundane.  
  
He leaned forward in his seat, uncrossing his legs to plant both feet firmly on the ground and settled the notebook on the couch beside him. He had the loop the surveillance ran memorized, so he knew he had two other cameras for it to play through before it got to where he wanted to see. After a few seemingly long moments, it clicked through to the slave hold and the big man pushed a button on the remote to halt the cycle. He quickly counted down the left side of the hold, where all the male slaves were located, and found the cell he was looking for.  
  
Grimmjow’s lip curled into a vicious snarl, the remote dropping from his hand as he stood and tore out of the room. The office door slammed against the wall with the force he used to the throw it open. To his chagrin, the cage sat empty, despite his warnings not to let the newly acquired, mixblooded slave be rented out just yet.  
  
He sprinted down the hall, toward the main foyer that led in and out of his estate. Once there, he slammed the door to the guest sign-in office open, making the woman that worked there jump in surprised, and rumbled a hurried command, “Get Szayel. Send him up to the rooms. We’ve got an injured client in one of them.”  
  
He didn’t wait for the woman to agree to his orders, and turned on his heel to take off through the hall once more. He crossed the foyer and started climbing the staircase that would lead him to the next floor up. He would need to go up to the second story, where the rooms were held, but he skipped the elevator most clients were allowed to use, intending to head the escaped slave off during his wild flight. It was simple logic that made him choose the shortened path and the stairs; the new slave only knew where his cage was, no doubt he would choose the opposite direction to run, which would consequently lead him toward the main door rather than one of the side exits. Grimmjow snarled, taking the stairs three and four at a time.  
  
 **•••  Special Detective Force; 15th Precinct : 16 days ago •••**  
  
The commissioner’s office was quiet, the air heavy, like the occupants held their breaths. The entirety of the police station seemed to know something was going on, despite how hushed the mission had been kept. The blinds that lined the windows of the commissioner’s office had been drawn, the door locked, keeping their business private. Tacked up along the far wall of the office, where no windows were located, several full color prints had been displayed. Propped up in a corner, a few rolled up blueprints sat near by.  
  
The small force, consisting of some of the finest men and women the city had protecting it, was silent as they waited for their leader to begin. All of them knew what the private meeting was about; a debriefing for a sudden mission that had taken precedence over almost all else. And in the midst of them, Ichigo stood with a controlled expression settling over his handsome features, arms crossed over his chest. His expressive siena eyes panned over the various photographs; different external views of the estate he would be infiltrating and the dangerous man that owned it.  
  
“Alright, people,” The commissioner finally started, seating himself on the edge of his desk and folding his arms over his chest, “we all already know what this operation is about and what’s going on, so we’re going to jump right in. The building has four levels,” He pointed to photos before crossing his arms again.  
  
Ichigo frowned slightly as he looked at the photos of the building’s front, before he realized there must have been a basement. Everyone in the city knew what the large estate looked like on the outside, and that it sat right on the very edge of The Shallows, but he supposed only those that were either business partners or customers knew what the inside actually housed. It wasn’t a place normal citizens just visited for the fun of it.  
  
The commissioner stood and grabbed a rolled up blueprint, pulling the elastic bands from around it’s edges. He smoothed it out against the wall, one of his officers helping him hold it as they tacked it to the wall. “Now, these are from the building’s original construction and we know he’s had crews in there a few times, so these aren’t exact and it’s impossible to tell what he’s changed, but you’ll get the idea.  
  
“We know from our search last year that the lowest level is where he houses the majority of his slaves. The hold is made entirely of concrete, like a bunker and to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what it was. It’s got the same general proportions and supports as a bomb shelter, only one entrance and exit.” The commissioner, standing in front of his elite group shook his head slightly, then added in a muttered voice, “paranoid bastard.” before continuing with his debriefing, snagging a few sheets of paper from his desk. “The space is large, but it’s divided into several smaller areas much like jail cells, iron bars over the fronts and everything. Walk way between the two rows. You get the idea. We all know what a prison looks like.  
  
“Our head count at the time of the warrant was 36 slaves in that lower level, but he had empty cells and he’s constantly buying, trading and selling, so it’s impossible to keep track of how many he’ll have this time around. Provided he’s still got that hold set up like our last visit, all the females will be on the right side when you walk in, males on the left. He’s surprisingly organized. Everything’s very neat.”  
  
The commissioner and one of his officers tacked up the next blue print, this one detailing the shapes of the rooms and hallways on the ground level floor. Ichigo studied the layout as he listened. They all did. This was a very serious investigation, everything needed to run smoothly and quickly and should something go wrong, Ichigo needed to know how to get out with all haste and his crew needed to know how to get in and get to him and any potential witnesses he’d managed to find amongst Jaegerjaquez’s slaves. It wasn’t said aloud, but should the black market dealer catch wind of what was going on, especially last minute, it was almost guaranteed that he would eliminate those he perceived as going against him, meaning he would target Ichigo and the illegally obtained slaves that might speak against him. He was an intelligent and ruthless man, there was no telling what he would or wouldn’t do.  
  
The first floor was where Jaegerjaquez conducted most of his business. The blueprints showed that the front door opened up into a large, round, open air cathedral style rotunda like space, the ceiling of which extended to the ceiling of the second story. A winding staircase led up to the second floor along one side of the foyer and an elevator shaft was located at the very back of said space, out of the way and unobtrusive. They knew it led down into the basement and to the second floor and from what they could tell, it continued to the third floor as well. The rest of the ground level consisted of office space, meeting rooms, a fairly large banquet hall that they presumed Jaegerjaquez would use to entertain business peers and partners. The banquet area was complete with a fully stocked and staffed kitchen and a full bar. It made sense that that was also how he kept his workers and slaves fed.  
  
Moving on to the second story, the police commissioner once more pulled out another set of blueprints. The second story was accessible via the staircase that led up from the foyer, or the elevator. During the investigation, the warranted officers had mentioned a locked off door they believed to be another stairwell on the opposite side, tucked into the back corner of the building and it was also believed that only Jaegerjaquez himself had a key to it. Likely it was only unlocked and used when slaves were being transported in and out of the hold, seeing as it was located approximately directly over the slave hold.  
  
The main bulk of the second story consisted of spacious rooms and had the overall layout of a fancy hotel. Each room was furnished much like a hotel as well; a bed, a chair or couch, mirrors, even a small room -closed off with an unlocked door- that had a toilet, standing shower and sink. It was where his customers put their money to use.  
  
The briefing on the third and highest floor was short. It was locked off from the rest of the estate and hadn’t been included in the search a year ago, due to some obscure laws and a few veiled threats. It was believed to be Jaegerjaquez’s personal residence and since only his business had been under investigation and he’d made it quite clear they weren’t getting up there, they’d been unable to enter.  
  
“I don’t think you’ll need to find a way up there, Kurosaki, leave all that to us after we can raid.” The commissioner announced after telling them just how very little he knew about that top floor. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if that’s where he kept most of his incriminating but necessary paper work, what he would need to keep track of the illegal side of his dealings and trades. “All you need to do is find a reliable slave that will talk. When you go in there, you’re going in as a customer. I don’t care what your personal preferences are, if you find one that you think might talk, it doesn’t matter what gender, you pretend like that’s the one you want. And you very well may have to sleep with these people, Ichigo...”  
  
Ichigo’s features were hard as he nodded. It wouldn’t be a problem, he would do what he had to in order to put this corner of the black market under.  
  
“We’re hoping to get this underway in about two weeks time, but keep in mind that this investigation may be a long term one, months, maybe more. We can’t rush on this. If we tip Jaegerjaquez off, the whole thing’s going to come to a screeching and ugly end.”  
  
The commissioner paused, looking out at his task force. “This may very well be our last and best chance at taking this guy down, let’s make sure we do this right.”  
  
 **••• The estate near The Shallows : 270 days ago : 45 minutes prior •••**  
  
It was impossible to tell how long he’d been locked inside his prison, trapped within the slave trader’s grasp, but Shiro knew it must have been quite some time, more than just a couple weeks. There were no windows to let in the light of the sun or show the dark of night. The lights dimmed at regular intervals, during the days he guessed, since prostitution was mostly a night time activity, but he’d lost count of how many times he’d witnessed it. Instead of conventional ways of keeping track of time, he came to realize it’d been relatively long in other ways. His previously well kept, neat, shoulder length hair was beginning to grow out and look shaggy, despite that it was still clean and healthy. The cement he paced day and night was no longer rough and harsh on his bare feet. He’d grown used to it, callous to it’s hard surface, and that took time.  
  
Unlike what he’d originally assumed, he wasn’t wasting away or loosing weight at all, really. He was still lean and wiry, but not too thin. The slaves, himself included, were well fed, kept healthy and clean so that they were appealing to would-be customers. But he’d yet to be rented out, still too untamed to be trusted with a hapless client looking for a quick and emotionless fuck. He was only ever brought out of his cell in chains every couple days, and then he was only led to the back of the slave hold, where a locker room style shower was.  
  
The only person to ever set foot in his cell, the only person to ever dare touch him was still the slave trader himself. And after he was done, Shiro was usually visited by the doctor, to fix up any permanent damage before it could scar or make him lame and so useless. It seemed an endless cycle and he knew it was meant to break him, meant to make him compliant and willing and callous to being used. Like his bare feet were to the cement he tread day and night.  
  
Despite that he couldn’t stop it, Shiro still fought, still snarled and cursed and struggled. It always assured he’d get quite the beating before he was used, but he still refused to be someone’s willing plaything. He made the big man fight to take him, and a few times he’d even been knocked unconscious. Later, when he came to with the magic-user’s help, he would know that Grimmjow had not been deterred by his lack of responsiveness or motion. And the bigger male was never kind.  
  
And so, because he’d only ever been visited by just one man, it was with a sick, twisted sense of security that Shiro didn’t really realize what was going on when a random would-be client stepped up before his cage door. Like usual, he curled his lip in vile disgust and bitter hatred, and stayed seated where he’d been on his cot, back to the cold, smooth wall. Usually, when someone took interest in him, he or she was informed that he was still not on the roster yet, and so they would have to come back at a later date to try him out.   
  
But this time, it wasn’t the blue haired trafficker that was leading people through the hold, and so, when the client nodded and spoke with Grimmjow’s assistant, it didn’t register to Shiro that they were striking up a deal, that the client wasn’t being denied. The client, a man of average height and burly weight, was led from the hold and a few minutes later one of the assistants -a hollow- that Grimmjow let handle his business when out of the estate came and unlocked Shirosaki’s cell.  
  
The pale young man jolted from his half aware state when the clank of the lock sounded through the small space. He turned wide, surprised eyes on the big creature entering his cell and stood from the cot to press his back against the wall. Pale lips peeled away from white teeth as ashen brows furrowed, but the big creature entering his cell merely shook his head and rumbled a threatening sound of his own.  
  
Shirosaki was dragged bodily from the cage and shoved toward the door at the end of the hall, the one he’d only been through once and couldn’t remember what sat on the other side of.   
  
“Ya can’t do this!” He hissed up at the assistant. His stomach roiled with what he was about to say next, with the fact that he was relying on the man he hated above all others to keep this from happening, but panic was a strong thing and he had no desire to be thrown to yet another hungry person to be used. “He’ll kill ya for goin’ against his rules! ...he-he’s the only one tha’s supposed ta...”  
  
Again, the big assistant shook his head and shoved Shiro forward. “Grimmjow’s not here.” He rumbled, his voice distorted in a way that almost matched Shiro’s own.  
  
The slave stumbled under the strength of the full-blooded hollow’s movements, and before he knew it, the door at the end of the hold was being pulled open. Terror made his heart beat impossibly fast, like it was trying to hammer it’s way through his ribs; the fear of being thrown into a new situation, new surroundings, the horror of being forced to lay under yet another person. It made him breath in quick, shallow pants and try to take a step back and away, even if the only thing to go back to was his cell. When his back only hit the much larger male leading him, he was once more pushed forward and through the portal.  
  
What he expected to find was not at all what he was faced with, not that he really knew what it was that he expected. On the other side of the door, a hallway stretched until the view was blocked with a sharp turn. The walls on either side were lined with classical paintings and mirrors with wide, fancy frames -normal enough decor- but no doors or windows.  
  
He was led down the hall and around the bend to a set of stairs that only went up, then around another bend, to a small landing where a door and yet another set of stairs continued the upward journey. The assistant pushed him toward the stairs when his steps faltered and he tried to pause. He nearly tripped over the first step, but the hand wrapped around his arm held steady and kept him on his feet, though not in a kind way.  
  
When they made it to the top of this staircase, Shiro was granted with yet another long hallway, but this time, either side of the corridor was lined with doors. The closed portals were each made of dark, hard wood, silver knobs complete with locks adorning them. They were spaced apart, giving him a rough idea of how large the rooms they led to were, and despite that there were a few other slaves absent from the hold, the hallway was unnaturally silent.  
  
Shiro once again halted, his motions stilling as he tried to dig himself in, rooted to where he stood. It wasn’t very effective and the bigger male snorted an almost amused sound as he once more yanked Shiro further along. He forcibly dragged the slave halfway down the hall, before turning toward a door. He must have already known what other rooms were in use and which weren’t, because he didn’t bother to announce his entry and simply pulled the door open before throwing Shiro in.  
  
Stumbling, Shiro slid across smooth tile as he tried to keep his balance. He spun on his heel and threw himself back toward the door, but it was thrown shut in his face, a rumbling voice calling through. “Behave yourself for once. You might actually enjoy it.”  
  
“Lemme out!” Shiro pounded on the door, mind revolting against everything about the assistant’s command and statement. The very thought made him want to vomit. He wrapped pale hands around the doorknob, desperately trying to twist it and yank the door open. He wasn’t so surprised when it didn’t budge, and that it had been locked. Panting lightly with the effort he’d put into trying and the panic welling in his mind, he spun back to the room he found himself in.  
  
It was only a small relief to realize he was still alone: he knew it wouldn’t be long until the client was brought up. Normally, had he been any of the other slaves, he would be using this alone time to ready himself and the room so that it all would provide maximum pleasure for the paying customer. Instead, he used it to scan his surroundings.  
  
The room wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t crowded either. A massive bed stood in the middle of the long wall to his right, the bedposts high and decoratively carved. The bedspread was of sultry colors, a few shades lighter than the dark tile below his feet. A large, fluffy rug made from the fur of what used to be an enormous animal lay beneath the bed’s feet and sprawled out over the tile. An equally elaborate and decorative chair sat in the back, left corner, it’s colors matching the bed’s. The walls were a light creme color, the ceiling high and arching, with a crystal and silver chandelier for lighting. Standing in the far wall directly opposite where he stood before the door, a window was covered by long, dark but airy curtains.  
  
Shiro scrambled across the room, jerking the curtains from their fixtures as he pulled them aside only to find thin but sturdy bars crossing over the glass of the window. It didn’t even matter that he was two stories above the ground. A frustrated, verging on frightened sound escaped his throat as he tested the strength of the bars. They didn’t budge, not against his strength and not even when he threw his weight into trying. He could just barely reached between them to feel smooth, cool glass below his fingers, but when he tried, he couldn’t get the window to open and he would never be able to break it with the bars in the way.  
  
A small sound from behind caught his attention just as the door was swung open again. Shirosaki spun back around, backing up until his bare shoulder blades pressed against the bars of the window, his stance ready and nervous.  
  
It wasn’t the assistant this time, and instead, a man dressed in business casual attire stepped through the door, quickly shutting it behind himself. He locked it and tucked a key into the pocket of his pants, only looking up when a low, lilting growl filtered through the room. He smiled upon seeing his chosen merchandise backed clear to the opposite side of the room, and there was something slimy in the expression.  
  
“I’m told you tend to put up quite the resistance,” The man murmured, his tone sounding more as if he were speaking to an animal rather than to a living, breathing person. Shiro curled his lip, gold on black eyes narrowing. The man only smiled again and stepped away from the door as he began tugging an already loosened tie away. He draped the tie across the bed when it was pulled free, and began working on the buttons to his shirt. “but that’s alright. I happen to like a bit of a struggle.”  
  
“Ya touch me and I’ll kill ya...” Shiro’s voice was low and mostly steady, the tremble in it just barely noticeable. Pale fingers curled into fists against the wall below the window as his sharp eyes watched the client’s every movement. This was a whole new brand of frightening and wrong.  
  
“Ah, I see I wont be disappointed then.” The client said as he dropped his shirt to the floor and began to slowly, steadily cross the room toward the slave he’d selected.  
  
As he approached, Shiro stiffened, edging away from the man along the wall and toward his right and the chair. His skittish actions seemed to only further interest the client and the man continued toward him. Turning, Shiro bolted passed the man and back to the door, once more attempting to yank it open. Of course it was locked, he’d known it was locked. He’d watched the client lock it, but panic was setting in again and desperation stole his common sense. The air seemed thick and hot and he could barely breathe as he trembled, desperately wishing the door would just open but it was getting him no where.  
  
“Ah ah~” The man chuckled, wagging a finger in the slave’s direction like a chastising parent. “No running for you, little rabbit.”  
  
“I’ll give ya lil rabbit...” Shiro grit out, turning to face the client again. “Gimme the key.” He demanded through a sneer. The expression of rage was more of a mask to hide his fear and trepidation. “This don’t have ta get any uglier...”  
  
All the while, the client drew nearer. Shiro didn’t bother running, there was no where for him to go. He could continue to circle the room and avoid the man for hours, but he couldn’t get out, couldn’t get away, not without that key. And he couldn’t get the key if he didn’t let the client near.  
  
A disgusted shiver worked up his spine and he turned his head away, a grimace on his features as the man reached out and sickly warm fingers trailed down the side of his throat, across the hollow of his clavicle, working lower along his bare and heaving chest.  He was positive the man could probably feel his heart pounding behind his ribcage.   
  
The pale lad tried to take an instinctive step away, but the door was still at his back and he didn’t go far. Curling his lip, eyes wide under furrowed brows, his hand snapped up, pale fingers grasping around the man’s arm in a bruising grip. His black nails found the soft skin of the underside of the man’s wrist, tearing shallow furrows through flesh.  
  
It was then that the client seemed to realize this wasn’t all just a game, that the hollow he’d paid hadn’t been kidding when he’d said this particular slave was still wild and didn’t make things easy. Well, he hadn’t exactly been lying when he’d told the pale lad he liked a struggle either. A little rough handling was all it usually took to make people comply. His dark eyes narrowed as he wrenched his limb from the slave’s grasp, his other hand coming up.  
  
The resounding sound of the client’s open hand catching Shiro across the face echoed dully in the room and both males froze for a split second. Shirosaki’s eyes went impossibly wide, before something in him snapped and his features twisted with outrage. He half snarled, half yelled his anger and indignation at being treated in such a way, and pounced.  
  
All the rage and the anger he’d felt over the past few months, all the hatred he’d been unable to express through his fear and hopelessness; all of it presented itself as he drove the client back. He was not an overly large creature, having acquired his mostly human mother’s size, but Shiro was certainly not weak. And desperation was powerful motivation, even more so when it’d been pent up and was finally faced with an outlet. If Shiro could get the key from the man he was supposed to be servicing, he could get away, he could run. The nightmare and the abuse would be over.  
  
The man, taken off guard by the skittish slave’s sudden aggression, reeled back under Shirosaki’s weight and strength. He tripped over the edge of the plush, fur rug and the two tumbled back and onto the bed, Shiro on top. The pale young man drove his fist as hard as he could down into the client’s face, hearing as well as feeling as the man’s nose crunched. Blood streamed down the man’s face as he cried out in pain and for a split second, Shiro hesitated, seeing a familiar fear flash through the dark eyes staring up at him.  
  
That split second was all it took for the client to recover and shove the slave off himself. Shiro thudded to the tile floor with a grunt, but scrambled back upright, bare feet sliding, as the client’s blood streaked features twisted with anger and the man came after him again. But this was a fight he could win, this wasn’t the man that had so easily tossed his very humanity aside. This was a man he wasn’t afraid of in the same ways he feared the slave trader, this wasn’t a man he was conditioned to submit to.  
  
By the time their struggle was over, Shiro was panting through bared teeth and the client was motionless where he lay on the floor, the barest hint of a pained wheeze coming from him. The slave took a backward step toward the door again, hesitating, waiting to see if the commotion had been heard, but the walls and doors were sound proofed against the activities that would normally occur within the rented out rooms. After that moment, when the realization dawned on him that no one would know what had just happened yet, he scrambled back over to the downed man and grimaced as he began digging around in the man’s pocket.  
  
It didn’t take him long to find the key and he half tripped over himself springing back to his feet and turning for the door again. He regained his balance, scrambled to the portal and, with shaking hands, inserted the key. He wasn’t sure what he expected, by all logic, nothing but an empty hall should have awaited him, but he jumped slightly when the lock released with a quiet snick and he turned the door knob as silently as he possibly could.  
  
Pushing the door open, wincing at the barely there squeak of hinges protesting against the movement of the heavy door, he poked his head out into the hallway beyond and first looked down the way he’d been brought, then the other direction. As it should have been, all was silent and empty. Pushing the door closed behind himself, careful not to let it bang, he took off. Having never before been loose within the walls of the estate he found himself trapped within, he only knew that the slave hold was located to his left, so he went right, further down the long hall.  
  
On either side, he passed door after closed door. Already knowing what likely sat behind them, he didn’t bother attempting to find an unlocked one. All he knew for sure was that he was no longer locked away behind bars and that every building had an exit and an entrance. So he ran; down the hall, as far away as he could get from the slave hold and all that had happened to him there. After several long minutes, constantly looking over his shoulder, he couldn’t believe no one hadn’t come looking for him yet. He hadn’t heard the deal made with the client he was supposed to be entertaining, so he didn’t know how long it would be until someone realized he was missing, or that the client had never left the room, but he couldn’t imagine it would be long.  
  
And that was about the time his good fortune came to a sudden end. He rounded a corner, again looking over his shoulder for signs of pursuit, and ran full tilt into something very solid but far too forgiving to be a wall. He looked up with slow, hesitant motions and wide eyes, fearful of who he’d find, only to catch sight of nothing but brilliant blue. For a half second, as both men froze in their surprise, Shiro found on odd sort of comfort at the familiarity of his captor compared to the new and nerve wracking surroundings and events. Then disgust and revulsion washed through him, a terrified guilt crashing in right behind it. He bared white teeth as he pushed away from the big man that had put him through so much already, and took off again, as fast as he could run, an all new dread crowding his mind. Grimmjow knew he was loose...  
  
Grimmjow knew.  
  
The slave trader’s growling voice boomed down the hall after the escaped man as he too took off, turning to go back in the direction he’d come from and on Shirosaki’s heels. The pale slave was quite the quick footed man, but Grimmjow had the home advantage. He knew all the twists and turns, all the bends in the hallway, all the doorways and the staircases. When they came to T at the end of the hall, Shiro paused for just a moment, head lifted slightly, before he darted toward the right and threw himself down the hall as quickly as he could. Behind him, Grimmjow snarled a curse, knowing the smaller male had chosen the correct direction to reach the exit he clearly sought. The next bend in the hall would place him directly on the landing of the two story staircase that led to the front door, the landing overlooking the high ceilinged foyer.  
  
Unfortunately for Shiro, when he rounded that last bend in the hall, he was faced with yet another unexpected obstacle; the waist height railing that was meant to keep people safe as they ascended the winding staircase. It was hardly half a dozen feet away from the turn to the corridor, not even two strides from where Shiro turned the corner at a dead sprint.  
  
A startled breath escaped him, eyes widening, as he saw the sudden drop off and decorative bannister. Skidding to a stop, his bare feet slid across the tile and his momentum threw him up against the railing. Just before he could loose his balance and tumble over, the big man chasing him down caught up. A hand caught his shoulder with bruising strength, yanking him back, away from the railing and throwing him to the tile flooring at the top of the stairs.  
  
The slave trader turned around, his angular features twisted with rage and his blue eyes nearly glowing for how heated and angry they looked; like a man that had been slighted and knew it. Shiro attempted to scoot away, but he only managed to back up against the wall behind him, still seated on the ground as he stared up at the larger with wide, inverted eyes. To his left and along the same wall he was cowering against, the doorway that led back the way he’d come and further into the bowls of the estate sat. To his right, the long, steep staircase and Grimmjow. But directly ahead of him was the railing and the two story drop to ground level. The fall wouldn’t kill him...he knew it wouldn’t, and if he could land right, he may even make it intact enough to keep running.   
  
Desperation was a cruel and powerful thing. It made people do crazy things. Shirosaki’s intense, liquid golden eyes locked on the railing as his body stiffened, readying for movement. He was so close to his freedom now, he refused to flee back into the estate where he’d ultimately be captured again.  
  
“No! Don’t even think about it!” Grimmjow’s voice was loud and commanding in the open air of the foyer the balcony overlooked as he watched his newest plaything’s body language. He dove at the smaller man just as Shiro sprang from the ground.  
  
He only made it half way to the railing when Grimmjow’s heftier weight crashed into him. Both men slammed to the ground, sliding across the tile flooring and coming to a halt in front of the doorway that led back into the estate’s belly. Shiro screamed a wordless, desperate and snarling sound; all panic driven aggression. His fist slammed into Grimmjow’s chest so hard the trafficker couldn’t even find the air needed for a grunt of pain, his features twisting to show the sentiment instead.  
  
Shiro drove himself up, again trying to desperately scramble away, toward the staircase that was no longer blocked from his path. Grimmjow’s hand snapped out after him, catching hold of one pale ankle and tripping him. The slave crashed back to the tile, spinning to face Grimmjow as the big man dragged him close again.  
  
“No! Lemme go!” He practically screamed, whole body trembling as his chest heaved. “J-just lemme go...please lemme go...”   
  
He struggled, lashed out, snarled and fought against the bigger man, but panic stole his common sense, fear sapped his strength. He was once again in the clutches of the man that had been using and abusing him for the past few months and that made his motions sloppy and weak, experience telling him he would be overpowered by this man yet again. Grimmjow had caught him once, and Grimmjow would catch him again.  
  
In the end, Grimmjow sent him sprawling and unable to rise, and Shirosaki was dragged back to his cage.   
  
The client would live, after much quick and dirty magic work on Szayel’s part, but it was highly unlikely he’d be a returning customer. Out of fear for his own life and the knowledge of what happened to those that went against organized crime of any sort, the man kept the whole incident to himself, simply happy to be alive. And later that night, after Grimmjow had removed his disobedient assistant from his operation, Shiro was punished.


	3. Chapter 3

**••• The estate near The Shallows : 254 days ago  •••**  
  
Gritting his teeth, features twisted into a pained expression, Shiro clamped his hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. His free hand curled into a tight fist against the harsh concrete below him. He’d given up on trying to plead and beg and scream his way out of what was happening to him. He’d realized he was only spurring the man on, so the past few times that Grimmjow had come to him, he’d done his best to remain quiet. Unnervingly so. Muted sounds still escaped him; small grunts he couldn’t quite hold back, pained groans he couldn’t quite strangle, but that was it. The only sounds to echo through his cage was the deep voicing of the slave trader’s pleasure and anger, and the sounds of flesh coming together with his less than gentle thrusts.  
  
A tiny amount of blood still managed to smear along Shiro’s inner thighs from not being prepared properly, but he’d mostly grown used to the abuse. His body was adjusting, no matter how much he hated it. The few tears that slipped from below his closed eyelids were more out of bitter hatred and resentment than from the pain. He was growing used to that too.  
  
After the incident with the client and some meeting Grimmjow had made mention of -it seemed so long ago now- the trafficker and his pink haired freak of a doctor had been trying to come up with a way to make him more compliant, make him tame enough to start earning them money. Beating him senseless -until he could hardly breath and he lay in a puddle of his own blood and piss- hadn’t done the trick, but they would break him if it was the last thing they did. Shiro knew they would. It’d been months since his capture. Grimmjow was growing impatient. They would break him, or they would get rid of him.  
  
The prospect of his misery finally being brought to an end wasn’t really such a bad thing. So long as it was over, death didn’t seem so bad anymore. But he was positive they wouldn’t kill him, not when they could sell him and at least get some form of monetary compensation for the time they’d wasted on him, and that was certainly a frightening idea. It was hard to imagine where ever he’d end up would be worse than where he was now, yet he couldn’t bring himself to hope it would be better.  
  
Shirosaki finally cried out as Grimmjow thrust behind him so hard his bare hips dragged against the concrete he was pressed against with enough force to leave blood and ravaged flesh behind. The bigger male had originally thrown him to his cot, intending to take him bent over the small bed, but despite how long this had been going on and despite that Shiro was giving up on ever getting out of his prison, he still fought back: he’d be dead before he quit fighting entirely. They’d ended up overturning the cot as they struggled, and eventually Grimmjow had pinned him to the ground.  
  
A cruel grin took over Grimmjow’s features as the slave finally let out a distorted, muffled cry. His hands gripped pale hips so tightly he knew he was leaving bruises, marking what was his. But as much as he enjoyed the pale lad’s pain, he was beginning to realize it would take more than that to break the mixblood. So he switched his tactics. Szayel was busy working on a quick, temporary fix so that they could throw the young man under clients, but Grimmjow was determined to break the lad’s spirit more permanently than that.  
  
Pulling himself free, Grimmjow quickly and roughly jerked Shirosaki around and slammed him back to the ground so that he lay on his back. He’d never before allowed the slave to face him while he’d taken the man, wary of those black claws of his and all the ways Shiro would surely lash out if given the chance.  
  
A startled sound escaped Shiro’s pale throat as he looked up at the bigger man. The concrete was surprisingly cold against his shoulder blades, making for an odd contrast to the throbbing, sickening burn in his lower half. He would have thought it would be a soothing one, but he was wrong. It only made him want to be sick all the more.  
  
Almost instantly, a fiery sneer peeled his lips away from white teeth. The action caused a flash of sharp discomfort as the extra motion pulled at a ragged, fresh cut along the inside of his mouth, earned by his own teeth when Grimmjow had managed to trip him up and knock him to the ground. His saliva tasted coppery, bitter.   
  
Before he could even make the effort to reach up, to begin fighting again and try to push the big man away from him, Shiro’s arms were wrenched upward, his wrists held too securely above his head by a single, large hand. He jerked and yanked, trying to break Grimmjow’s hold, but the blue haired man was overpowering in his brute strength.  
  
When the big man’s other hand worked it’s way along his inner thigh, toward his knee, Shiro shuddered, strange eyes once more squeezing shut as he turned his head away. His brows furrowed all the further, lip curling to bear his teeth in a silent snarl. His legs were pushed further apart before Grimmjow reentered him in an unhesitant thrust, quickly striking up a brutal pace again.  
  
All the lean muscle of Shiro’s body went tight as he strained against the hand holding his arms above his head and out of the way. His fingers curled around the bigger man’s wrist, his nails cutting thin but deep furrows through tan flesh as he grit his teeth. He refused to make a sound, refused to give his captor that satisfaction, but something was very different. Not only was the bigger man forcing Shiro to face him, but there was a measured precision to Grimmjow’s movements that the slave had never noticed before. Or, more likely, that had never been there before.   
  
After only a minute or two of the bigger man thrusting, Shiro’s eyes snapped wide, a gasp falling from his suddenly parted lips. A wide, triumphant grin spread across Grimmjow’s features as he studied the slave’s reactions to the first time his prostate had ever been stimulated. He thrust again, abusing the area with his heavy cock and to his utter delight, the pale lad writhed under him, a pitiful, confused whimper shuddering from Shiro’s lungs and lean legs tightening with almost painful strength around his hips where he knelt between the slave’s legs.  
  
“Like that, do you?” Grimmjow all but purred in a deep, velveteen voice.  
  
“N-no..!” He didn’t understand, he’d never felt that before. Why would his body so willingly accept something so brutal, so terrible? But whatever the big man was doing to him, it sent wave after wave of intense, sickening pleasure through his body. It made him ache, made him burn from the inside out. His back arched against his will, his body reacting to the sudden and unexpected assault. It felt so...good...but it shouldn’t have. Nothing should have! This wasn’t right, he didn’t want any part of this but he couldn’t control it.  
  
Grimmjow continued thrusting, finding his prostate with nearly every deep penetration. The slave threw his head back, desperately struggling against the hold on his wrists. He twisted his hips, writhed and panted and tried to no avail to squirm his way out of Grimmjow’s clutches. Just when he’d thought he’d gotten used to this form of abuse, to being used like this, just when he thought it didn’t really scare him anymore, that he’d grown callous, the bigger man had found yet another way to torment him.  
  
“S-stop! Please...plea-ah–!”   
  
It was a pleasure he didn’t want, derived from an act against his will. And it terrified him, made him feel dirty and used all over again, made him feel guilty. Tears tracked down his pale features again. It was too much, too many conflicting sensations to deal with and the coil in his pelvis was growing hot, aching to the point of painful, of...needy.  
  
By the time Grimmjow was done, he left the smaller male panting desperately and laying motionless on the hard floor of his cell. As he finally released Shiro’s wrists, grimacing at the slick yet sticky feeling of blood wetting his own wrists and palms, he stood and tucked his softening member back into his pants. A quiet round of applause made him arch a brow as he looked up, finding his halfblood doctor standing just outside of the cage’s door.  
  
“My my, what a show.” Szayel purred, a sly smirk on his thin lips. His golden eyes flashed in the crisp, artificial lighting of the hold’s walkway. “He’s so wonderfully expressive and vocal when he wants to be, Grimmjow. How perfect.”  
  
Grimmjow snorted a dry laugh, glancing down at the worn out, used slave, before rounding the smaller’s limp form and exiting the cell. He locked the door behind himself, not bothering to check on the slave: Shiro’s chest rose and fell in a breathless way, showing he was alive and mostly well, if not out of breath. His trembling showed he was conscious still, despite his motionless state, no doubt trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.  
  
“So what’s the word, Szayel?” Grimmjow asked, rolling his shoulders slightly, like he’d just gotten back from a workout rather than using a man against his will. “Good news, I hope.”  
  
“Well, we’ll have to test it out on him, of course,” As he spoke, Szayel’s intelligent eyes strayed the pale lad’s naked form from behind the spotless lenses of his glasses. “but I’m quite confident I’ve got something that will do the trick. At least temporarily. Eventually he’ll likely build an immunity to it, but it’s a start.”  
  
“Good.” Grimmjow nodded and began heading toward the exit of the slave hold. He winced slightly, flexing his fingers into fists and feeling the damage done to soft flesh and unprotected tendons. He’d been right to keep those black nails away from his body. They’d have to find a way to counter that little issue as well, if whatever Szayel had concocted didn’t take enough of the fire out of the mixbreed.  
  
A light trailing of thin fingers down one of his muscled arms made the blue haired man pause. He arched a brow, glancing over at his rather effeminate business partner, but those intelligent, not quite human eyes were focused much lower than his features.  
  
Szayel was already studying the damage done to his employer’s wrists and hands. He could tell without even feeling yet, without even probing with his talents that it was damage that needed dealt with. “Allow me.” He murmured as Grimmjow lifted his hands, palm up.  
  
The doctor’s slim fingers ever so lightly danced across bloodied, torn skin, before the yellow of his eyes seemed to swirl in an unnatural way. As if plucking at thin, invisible strands, he began reversing the injuries, pulling the tears from ligaments, reconnecting tendons and soothing pain. It was quick work for the practiced man, but important work nonetheless. There were few as skilled as he when it came to arts such as these.  
  
Within moments, cool fingers were smoothing over ragged gashes and shredded skin, fixing the surface damage now that the deeper, more permanent and worrisome wounds had been dealt with. Soon enough, Grimmjow was left without so much as a scar to show that Shiro had finally managed to mark the bigger male.  
  
Later that day, after Shiro had pulled himself from the cold ground and managed to pull a thin sheet from his overturned cot around his naked frame, he was again visited by his tormentors. This time, both Grimmjow and Szayel came to him, but it wasn’t for the same reasons he was growing used to.  
  
When they both entered his cell at the same time, he could have never guessed what was going on, what was about to happen. He snarled and once more backed himself into a corner of his cage, hands tightening around folds of fabric as he held the sheet close. But Grimmjow had already used him, and they didn’t try to remove the cloth.  
  
Instead, the big slave trader snagged hold of his arm, forcing him to straighten it away from where it’d been curled close to his bruised chest, and placed his larger body between Shiro and where Szayel stood. The pink haired doctor blocked from his view, and Grimmjow’s back to him, Shiro half whined a pitiful sound of confusion and fright, and tugged lightly, testing the hold on his now outstretched arm. It wasn’t much of a surprise when Grimmjow’s fingers tightened around his limb and didn’t allow for even the slightest of movements.  
  
“What’re ya doin’ ta me?” Shiro hissed, breathing picking up slightly. He tugged again, but it only earned him a bruising hold and an annoyed, agitated grumble from the bigger, blue haired man.  
  
“Relax, my dear.”   
  
It was Szayel’s sickly sweet voice and it sent a shiver down Shiro’s spine. The thin blanket dropped from around his naked form as he braced his other hand along Grimmjow’s back, pushing at the bigger man as he grew fearful again, despite that even laying hand on the big man disgusted him.  
  
“A quick prick and it’ll be over, no pain this time around.” Szayel continued, his voice deceivingly soft, melodic. “You’ll hardly even feel a thing.”  
  
Shiro flinched and hissed a surprised sound when the sharp flash of a needle pushing through his pale skin assaulted his arm. Whatever he was injected with, it burned entering his veins and he grit his teeth, effort to escape the slave trader’s hold redoubling.  
  
Only taking the pale lad by surprise all the more, Grimmjow didn’t even try to keep ahold of him this time, and Shiro stumbled backward, nearly tripping over himself as the big man let go. He backed away from the two in his cell, clutching at his burning limb and baring white teeth, but Grimmjow and Szayel merely watched him. The trafficker even bent to right the overturned cot before turning and the two left the cell altogether.  
  
Grimmjow locked the cage, turning to leave the slave hold. Szayel tilted his head slightly, smiling at the slave, before he too left the hold.  
  
Shiro cautiously eased to the front of his cell. He didn’t bother trying to cover his nakedness: it was something all the others had seen by now anyway. He watched between the bars of his cage as his two captors left the hold entirely, locking the door behind them, then he turned his gaze forward, and looked across the narrow walkway to the cell across from his.  
  
Nel stared back at him, her eyes a little wide, a little worried. She was still the only one that really ever talked to him, despite that he’d been there for several months. The others didn’t really talk to anybody, not even amongst each other. They were mostly quiet, broken. Occasionally someone would tell him to shut up, or told him he should stop fighting. They told him it would be for the best to just accept his fate, it would be better for all of them. Nel always told him not to listen to them. She always told him to never give up, that he was stronger than the rest of the slaves, that he could be the one that saved them all.  
  
Before he could ask, she shook her head slightly. “I-I don’t know, Shiro... I’ve never seen them do anything like this before...”   
  
Should a slave ever fall ill, he or she was removed immediately and quarantined while being treated, to keep the rest of Grimmjow’s stock from getting sick as well. Sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn’t, but they were always taken from the hold to be treated. Besides, Shiro wasn’t sick, and he’d already received all his vaccines before being brought to the slave hold months ago.  
  
Within minutes, Shirosaki’s entire body seemed to be on fire, not just his arm. He leaned his forehead against the bars of his cell, the metal cool compared to the heated temperature of the rest of him. Something wasn’t right, he could feel it, like a knot was beginning to form in the pit of his stomach and nothing but heat radiated from it.  
  
His breathing grew more elevated, a light pant as the liquid gold of his eyes began to cloud slightly, whatever he’d been injected with beginning to take affect in full. He was too warm, everything felt hot to the touch, and his skin was almost too sensitive.  
  
The mixblood stumbled slightly, body feeling heavy, off balance, as he moved off to the side of his cell, where the concrete wall met the bars of the front. “Wh-what’s happenin’ ta me..?”  
  
But no one answered. The only people that would have known weren’t around to ask, leaving him to his suffering alone, while the others could only look on. But most of the other slaves even ignored this, and didn’t even give him that much.  
  
Using the wall for support, Shiro stumbled further into the back of his cell again. The knot in his stomach seemed to grow, spreading downward and out, like it was reaching for something. He needed contact, his body demanded it; friction, warmth, need. His eyes widened as heat pooled low in his pelvis and an ache he hadn’t felt since he’d been captured made itself known.  
  
“What...” A sort of dulled horror shone in inverted orbs as Shiro realized what the result of whatever the slave trader and his halfblood magic-user had given him would be; just another way to make him compliant, make him submit.  
  
He tried to ignore it, he really did, but his whole body was on fire. Sweat beaded along his skin, made his heaving chest glisten, and he’d hardly even moved. He dropped to half kneel, half sit on the cool ground beside his righted cot, and leaned forward, one arm thrown over the bedding and face hidden in the crook of his elbow as his teeth found his bottom lip.  
  
“Shiro..?” He half heard the female slave’s worried voice, but it sounded distant, out of focus. “Shiro, are you ok? What’s going on?”  
  
He shook his head, never lifting it. The longer he sat there, the more heavily his drug induced need weighed on his body and his mind, the more he began to wonder why he was denying himself what he clearly wanted. Or thought he wanted? He didn’t know anymore. Instead, he decided it was what he needed.  
  
The hand not fisted tightly into bed sheets flexed where it had been resting against his leg. He only felt the burning heat of the small amount of contact he provided, not the sharp sensation as his black nails sliced through pale flesh. Before he even realized what he was doing, that hand wound around his painfully hard, unnatural erection.  
  
Sitting in his office, Grimmjow leaned back against his plush couch, arms thrown over the back. Szayel stood not far away, off to the side and just in front of the other end of the couch. On the large screen that was mounted on the wall before them, they watched as their unruly and stubborn slave was overcome by the drugs Szayel had created and began stroking himself. The drugs worked: they’d taken away the exotic lad’s will and strength to deny, they’d deadened his senses and clouded his mind enough for the aphrodisiacs the drugs were laced with to take over.  
  
A triumphant grin ate across Grimmjow’s handsome face like acid, “Congratulations, Szayel. I think you’ve earned that reward.”  
  
The pink haired halfbreed chuckled a slimy, chiming sound.  
  
 **••• The 15th precinct : two days ago to present •••**  
  
The weather had once more taken a turn, beginning to grow cold as summer gave way to fall. Rain pattered against the windows of the station as the heavy, grey clouds above began to let loose. It was a fitting atmosphere for what would be occurring in less than 48 hours.  
  
The days had seemed to creep on, crawling by as slowly as possible, yet they seemed far to swift and short too. Ichigo had been spending many long nights awake, scanning and reading through paper after paper, report after report. Things that he’d already read through when he’d first taken on this case were reread, freshened up on. He needed to know everything he could.  
  
The commissioner had given him copies of every photograph they had of the building in question; exterior photos, every photo they had of Jaegerjaquez himself, even ones that showed him out and about the city, interior photos that had been taken during the investigation a year ago.  
  
Ichigo looked up as a quiet knock sounded on the wooden frame of his office’s open doorway. He went back to shuffling through photos and papers as his boss came in, shutting the door behind him.  
  
“You going to be ready for this, Kurosaki?”  
  
“Yeah.” Ichigo sat the stack on his desk, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest as the commissioner settled in a chair near the front of Ichigo’s large, L shaped desk. Part of the desk was still reserved for other investigations he’d been working on, but all the information for those cases had been either handed to other detectives, or had been pushed to the side as Ichigo focused on his current task. “To be honest, I’m getting sick of waiting... I wish we could get started already.”  
  
The commissioner chuckled, not in the least bit surprised, nor really did he blame the young man.  
  
Looking back down at the stack of photos on his desk, Ichigo frowned and picked one up in particular. He’d seen it earlier, but hadn’t really noticed what was going on in the background, almost out of the shot entirely. “You were a part of the last investigation, right?”  
  
The commissioner nodded, accepting the photo that was handed over to him.  
  
“What’s this? I know what it looks like...but I can’t imagine something so obvious could have been missed during the investigation...” Ichigo’s features were set as he pointed out what looked like a gurney of sorts. The figure on it was mostly bare, or perhaps wearing very lightly colored clothing. It was nearly impossible to tell in the photo, since the focus was on something closer to the photographer, but it surely looked like a dead body.  
  
“Sick slave, at least that’s what Jaegerjaquez had told us.” The commissioner grunted out, glancing at the photo before handing it back. “Looks like a corpse, I know. He was really pale, but alive. Reedy pulse though, whether he was sick or not, there was something going on with him. Under the warrant, we didn’t have jurisdiction to bring in a doctor of our own or pull him out of Jaegerjaquez’s care, but I was able to take a quick look at the boy and his papers. We were pretty sure he was being drugged, but they had a doctor on staff looking after him so there wasn’t anything we could really do about it.”  
  
Ichigo snorted a sound in reply, glanced back down at the photo to study the blurry figure for a moment more before tossing it back to the pile with the other photos. It had been taken nearly a year ago. Worrying about it now wouldn’t do him any good, only drive him mad.  
  
Early the next morning, Ichigo and his team set out. They made a quick sweep of the surrounding area, scouring The Shallows for any would-be trouble. Aside from the usual nefarious activity -a few drug deals, some shady, back ally discussions- all seemed quiet.  
  
In an unmarked car, Ichigo drove a leisurely but not obvious circle around the building he would be infiltrating, taking one last look at the exterior so he would better know what he was dealing with. It was impossible to fully prepare, but he would get as close as he could to being ready. He would take every precaution possible.  
  
The building had been under surveillance for as long as they dared, which wasn’t really all that long, considering they were leery of tipping Jaegerjaquez off to the secret investigation, but on that day, a single day before Ichigo would be entering the building as a customer, the young detective joined them on their patrol.  
  
All seemed normal; the building was dead until nightfall, when it’s real purpose was served and the brothel it housed was opened up to customers. It was the busiest prostitution ring in the city, and it wasn’t so surprising that traffic came and went all through out the night. Very rarely was Jaegerjaquez himself seen. It seemed he stayed mostly indoors while he ran his business. Ichigo mainly watched the mannerisms of the people coming and going, in the effort to copy a natural and normal way about himself for when he’d be doing the very same.  
  
When the night was over and the sun was beginning to lighten the horizon, Ichigo and the commissioner left. The young detective went home for the day, where he rested up and prepared for his night of nefarious activities and dangerous, undercover work.  
  
The evening of the big day finally arrived, and Ichigo and his select team of chosen men and women were silent. Ichigo suited up in an expensive, but not tailored business suit, wrapping a tie around his collar before tugging it loose like he’d been forced to wear it all day during some meeting or another.  
  
“Remember, Kurosaki.” The commissioner said as he rode with Ichigo to a small, swanky bar he’d be leaving from. “This is an important mission, but it’s not worth your life. Something goes wrong, get out. We’ll have your team in the area, but you’re going weaponless. Keep low, be careful.”  
  
Ichigo had heard it all before, from nearly every person that knew about the secretive mission. He knew what he was doing and he wasn’t going to be completely helpless. Sure, he wasn’t bringing a gun with him for obvious reasons, but he knew how to take care of himself and as far as he’d been able to find out, Jaegerjaquez and his employees didn’t carry around weapons either. If something happened, it would be hand to hand until the guards could make it to the scene. If something went wrong, Ichigo didn’t plan on sticking around long enough for that to happen.  
  
They stuck around, sitting in a back corner of the bar, long enough for Ichigo’s clothing to absorb just a hint of the smells lingering around them; the faint smell of smoke and alcohol. Then Ichigo got up and left, leaving the commissioner behind, and climbed into a different car. He drove himself to Jaegerjaquez’s establishment, parking in the lot across the street from the main building, where it seemed most of his customers parked, and walked his way up to the front door. He didn’t nock, but pushed through the glass doors and entered the large, front rotunda he’d seen in the blueprints.  
  
There was a sliding window off to his right, looking into an office, much like seen in doctors’ offices and hospital check-ins. The woman sitting behind the desk looked up, smiled in a friendly enough manner, but there was a dull sort of appraisal to her expression. After a moment, she spoke up. “Hello, sir. Here to see Mr. Jaegerjaquez?”  
  
Ichigo tugged at his tie a bit more, flashing the woman a charming smile as he arched a brow slightly. “But of course. I’m sure he’s in at the moment?”  
  
The woman’s smile was a little more genuine this time. “He certainly is, though-” She glanced down at a planner sitting on her desk as Ichigo walked up to the window. “I believe he’s showing around another customer at the moment.” She pulled a separate book up, placing it open and facing Ichigo on the ledge of her opened window. “If you would sign your name and the date, I’ll let him know you’re here and we can get you all set up in just a few minutes.”  
  
“Perfect, thank you.” Ichigo accepted the pen handed to him and signed his name, before calmly turning back toward the large, open space around him. In all honesty, his heart was pounding, but he did well enough at feigning a calm and confident demeanor.  
  
“I take it you’ve never before visited us?” The woman asked conversationally, taking note of how the orange haired young man curiously looked about.  
  
Ichigo glanced over his shoulder at her, giving her yet another charming smile. “No, I’m not often on this side of the city, but if Mr. Jaegerjaquez’s services are as impressive as his establishment, I might have to make the trip more often.”  
  
The woman let out a soft, dignified laugh. “I can assure you, you wont be disappointed, Mr...” She glanced down at the registration book he’d signed, “Mr. Kurosaki.”  
  
Alibi for becoming a returning customer casually slipped into the small talk already, Ichigo turned back toward the large rotunda. The woman watching him already knew he was new here, and so would think nothing of it as he inspected the area. The dark tile under his feet was polished to a nearly mirrored, reflective black. Potted plants, lively and vibrant green, a few of them with exotic looking purple flowers, had been placed about the perimeter of the otherwise open space, giving it a sophisticated and inviting atmosphere. The railing of the bannister across from Ichigo, to the left upon entering, was made of silver, spiraling metal. The hallway the staircase led up to was blocked from view by a right angle turn nearly immediately after entering and Ichigo guessed it had been built like that on purpose, intended to keep curious onlookers or would-be trouble makers from getting too much of a look at the business end of Jaegerjaquez’s dealings. All in all, from the glimpse Ichigo was given from the entry, it was a high class place. Had it not been for the fact that he knew most of the slaves working in Jaegerjaquez’s building were illegally obtained and owned, he would have honestly guessed it to be a fairly decent place, not that he agreed with prostitution, but all things considered.  
  
And finally, to top the whole look of the place off, only a few moments later Mr. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez himself finally made an appearance. He entered the large rotunda via the staircase and his stride was fluid and well balanced as he descended the stairs, clearly something he’d done countless times before. Dark colored dress slacks clothed long legs and a light grey shirt that was nearly too tight fitted over a muscled chest, the short sleeves hugging corded upper arms and leaving the golden skin of his forearms visible. The slave trader cut quite the figure in person, and looked every bit as powerful and imposing as all the reports said he was.  
  
When he got to the bottom of the staircase, he paused for the briefest of moments, his eyes making a quick but thorough sweep of Ichigo’s figure, before he continued over to his most recent would-be customer. He extended his hand and Ichigo was gifted with a firm handshake to go with his introduction, and the attention of impossibly blue eyes that seemed to look down into his very person.  
  
“Welcome, Mr. Kurosaki.” The big man rumbled in a deep, velveteen voice, sounding every bit the gracious host. It was almost hard to believe there was monster hidden within the man.  
  
Ichigo did well at covering his slight frown upon realizing the man knew his name. Clearly the foyer had a wire hidden somewhere, no doubt with Jaegerjaquez’s secretary. It made sense, the man would surely have a way to keep track of what was going on through out his estate and should unwelcome company walk through the front doors again, Grimmjow would know before he made his appearance. That would explain the critical look the woman had given him upon entering, she was Jaegerjaquez’s little spy, his look out. She must have been the one to judge just what kind of business or dealings those who walked in were there for.  
  
The young man’s smile was smooth, easy-going, as he shook the slave trader’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Jaegerjaquez.”  
  
“That’s such a mouthful. Please, call me Grimmjow.” Rumbling and shiver-worthy, it was easy to see the man was quite the charmer when he chose to be, and also easy to see how he got so high on the totem pole. “What can I do for you this evening?”  
  
“I’ve heard good things about your place here, and I figured after a hard week, I owe myself the finest as a way to unwind.” Ichigo smirked, casually sticking his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting.  
  
“I think we’ve got just the thing to help you out, Mr. Kurosaki.” Grimmjow’s grin was wide and shark-like, a predatory expression mixed with amusement and a feigned facade of friendliness. He pivoted, sweeping his arm out toward the staircase he’d descended only moments ago. “Right this way, friend, we’ll get you all set up.”  
  
“Wonderful.” Ichigo bowed slightly and followed along behind the big man, trooping up the stairs at a not quite leisurely pace, but a relaxed one all the same. “No wonder you’re in shape...” Ichigo chuckled, “Walking up and down all these stairs constantly. Do you always personally greet your customers?”  
  
Grimmjow barked a laugh that was certainly easy to listen to, brilliant cyan eyes cornering to look toward the young man walking up said stairs at his side. “No, not always, but I try to at least make an appearance to all of my new guests.”  
  
“A good businessman, then,” Ichigo smirked as they made it to the top landing. He followed closely at the larger’s side as they turned down the hall and Ichigo did very little to hide as he looked about the door-lined hallway with an appraising eye. “I’m sure you’re quite a busy man.”  
  
That smooth, yet grating chuckle yet again, as Grimmjow graciously took the compliment with the slightest of nods to show his appreciation. “Busy indeed. You actually came at a very opportune time, we’ve only got seven rooms rented out at the moment, though my most popular one is among them. The gentleman just before you, actually.”   
  
“Ah, shame.” Ichigo said with a good natured, feigned disappointment. The big man at his side seemed to be in quite the good mood and would surely appreciate the small amount of humor. True to his thoughts, Grimmjow grinned as the undercover detective continued. “Perhaps I’ll have to make another trip to the East side some other time then.”  
  
“Certainly. He provides quite the entertainment once he gets started.” By this point, they’d reached the end of the hall and the blue haired black marketeer paused before a locked door. Opening it up, he held it and let his guest step through before following, and the two men took another flight downward.  
  
This second staircase was closed off on all sides, with blank walls to either side and a rather low ceiling. It was a very disorienting path to take, with no discernible features or ways to tell just how far downward they were traveling. Ichigo assumed they were headed toward the basement level now, where the slave hold was located, and coincidentally, where he’d be selecting his supposed partner for the evening. He couldn’t help but hope he’d be able to find the right person to help him this first visit, but he didn’t dare think it’d be so easy.  
  
They walked for a few minutes in idle small talk before they came to another hallway, this one straight and bare aside from a few classical paintings hanging upon the wall’s length. At the very end, another heavy door sat closed; no window or porthole of any sort to allow them to see the other side. What Ichigo did notice, however, was the subtle blink of little red light, letting him know there was power fed to the unobtrusive camera situated in the corner, looking down the hall and toward them. He didn’t let his gaze linger on it though, and turned back toward Jaegerjaquez. “Quite the seclusion down here. Worried they’ll get out?”  
  
Grimmjow smirked, snorting a small laugh. “Not really. They’re well behaved, but you seem like a fellow businessman. You know how it is: gotta keep your most valuable possessions locked up tight, or someone else will see them and want them.”  “Ah,” Ichigo nodded a single motion, “and being so near The Shallows, you never know...”  
  
“Exactly.” Grimmjow flashed an approving grin, happy the client -a man he was hoping would become another returning customer- understood what he was getting at.  
  
Grimmjow opened up the door at the end of the hall, pushing it open with the barely there groan of sturdy hinges holding the heavy door. He smiled at his customer, and once more allowed Mr. Kurosaki to proceed him into the new room, the hold.  
  
Inside was exactly like Ichigo had imagined when he saw the pictures. The ceiling was high, keeping all electrical wiring and fixtures such as the lighting and venting out of reach. The walls, floor and ceiling were made of obviously thick concrete and the bars along the various cells were sturdy, but everything was well kept and maintained, painted and cleaned to look pretty and far less imposing than it really was. For being a giant, underground, impenetrable bunker, it had a rather comforting feel to it. Within the cells, most of the slaves Jaegerjaquez prostituted out were quiet, obedient while they waited for the would-be client to look about and select one. Ichigo was impressed with how well furnished the cells were, to be honest; a sink, a small mirror, running water, a toilet, a small bed with sheets and blankets. And all the men and women looked well fed and healthy. Had the massive estate he was in not been obviously a brothel of sorts, and had these been regular, registered slaves meant for general labor, Ichigo would have found the conditions acceptable. For the most part, it looked like Jaegerjaquez followed the guidelines of being humane toward those he owned. Well, aside from the fact that he was forcing them into the sex industry and most of them were paperless.  
  
“You’ll have to forgive me for taking my time.” Ichigo pardoned himself as he made a slow sweep toward the very back of the hold.   
  
“Not at all, Mr. Kurosaki. Take your time.” Grimmjow stayed more toward the front of the hold and the door that had swung shut behind them. He crossed his muscled arms over his thick chest and grinned as he not so subtly watched his client. “After all, you’re paying good money for the services provided, you might as well enjoy the product.”  
  
The detective took his time in looking over each person lined up before him. They each automatically came toward the front of their cells, lining up like they’d done in thousands of times, like having hungry eyes track over their mostly exposed bodies didn’t bother them anymore. In truth, Ichigo doubted that it did: most of them had a very flat look to their eyes and expressions.  
  
One in particular caught Ichigo’s attention however, and was perhaps what he was looking for. At his first glance, the young woman’s large eyes were trained on the cell across from her own, a slightly regretful expression settled on her pretty features. A glance confirmed that the cell she was staring off into was empty, and Ichigo paused before her, turning to face her head on.  
  
Large, shining grey eyes quickly snapped away from the empty cage to look up at him as the woman pushed away her forlorn expression and gave him a pretty smile. She couldn’t have been any older than late teens, early twenties, Ichigo decided, just a girl still. As Ichigo was coming to the conclusion that she might just be his best bet at this point, the deep, rumbling voice of his host sounded from the other end of the cell.  
  
“A good choice. Nelliel’s a sweet little thing, she’ll treat you right.” There was a slick, disgusting grin in that sinful voice.  
  
“Nelliel...” Ichigo muttered absentmindedly, “That’s a pretty name.” But he thought she might work. She was young, and she’d shown more life and emotion than any of the others around them.  
  
A few moments later, Ichigo was led from the hold and shown to a high class, fancy bar type lounge, where he was given a free drink and informed that his room and his chosen entertainment would be ready shortly. He didn’t drink the alcohol given to him, but he toyed with the glass enough to make it seem as though he’d at least sipped on it while he waited.  
  
True to what he’d been told, Grimmjow returned shortly to show him to his room, where awaited him the slave girl he hoped would aid him in his investigation. He was lead down the long hallway lined with doors once more, but they paused at one in particular, and Grimmjow once more opened it up, holding it for the smaller. Ichigo thanked him and stepped in, a little relieved when the door was shut behind him.  
  
Seated on the edge of the bed, in hardly any clothing at all, was the young woman he’d chosen. Orange brows furrowed into their usual set, almost scowling expression as Ichigo looked her over, then around the room they’d been given. He took a deep breath, settling his nerves and hiding the slight cringe that wanted to make itself known, and stepped away from the door and closer to the girl.  
  
She smiled up at him sweetly, before reaching out to take his hand and pull him down to the edge of the bed with her. Turning to face him, she began slowly drawing the knot from his already loosened tie with elegant but practiced fingers. “You’re clearly new to this situation.” She told him, her voice light and maybe a little amused.  
  
Ichigo chuckled a little nervously and gave her a helpless shrug, figuring it couldn’t hurt to admit that much. She didn’t have to know who and what he was, just to know that he’d never been to an establishment like this before.  
  
“You’ve at least had sex before, right?” She asked, her smile seeming to grow.  
  
Ichigo’s features flushed a light red, “Uh, yeah, I have... I’m not a virgin...”  
  
Nelliel laughed and it really was a pretty sound. It seemed such a shame that the kind, young woman had ended up where she was. “Good!” She chimed happily, her fingers making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.   
  
Once it was opened up, she hummed a small sound and let her fingers trace approvingly down his chest and abdomen. Ichigo did his best to keep the frown from his face. He would admit though, if the situation had been different and the young woman had been a willing participant rather than simply fulfilling a duty, he really could have been enjoying this.  
  
“Then this shouldn’t be so difficult for you.” Nel continued, smiling up at the man. He was certainly handsome enough, she decided. She’d slept with and serviced far worse looking men. “You’re allowed to touch, you know.” She prompted with a small giggle.  
  
“I know.” Ichigo let out a bit of a hesitant laugh. This was the one part of the job he really hadn’t put much thought into, and the part he’d really wanted to avoid...but he’d said he could do it if he had to and he would stick by that. “You’re very pretty, Nelliel, but aren’t you kind of young to be doing this?”  
  
She gave him a lop sided smile and shook her head. “No one here is too young anymore.”  
  
Ichigo hid the cringe that her statement brought, realizing she wasn’t really talking about age the same way he was. Her youth and childhood had been taken from her. None of the slaves were really the age their bodies carried, not anymore.  
  
“If you would prefer,” She suggested, “you can simply watch.” The girl pointed behind Ichigo and he looked over his shoulder to see a comfortable looking arm chair situated in one corner. “It’s not as uncommon as you might think, so you really don’t have to be shy about it.”  
  
“No, I’m alright.” Ichigo assured her, trying to gain his composure back. “I’m just getting into the feel of it, you know? I’ve-uh-well I’ve never been with a woman before... Curiosity, you see...”  
  
She perked up almost instantly. “Oooh, I understand now! Well in that case, I’m honored then.” She told him, her smile growing and it honestly did look like a genuine expression, not a forced one. Her one hand dropped from the toned planes of his abdomen to his clothed thigh, tracing gentle, soothing, yet arousing little patterns along his pants as she made her way toward his crotch.  
  
Ichigo was reminded that she did have something of a job to do, despite that she seemed quite willing to engage in conversation. Surely that was part of what she did on a regular basis too, though. She was bound to run into clients who liked to talk and pretend to get to know her first.  
  
Her other hand, the one not currently trying to bring his clothed member to a throbbing arousal, went back to work on his clothing. She gently let her hand glide up his chest, before pushing at the unbuttoned shirt still clothing his shoulders, pushing the material back so that it slid and caught at his elbows, leaving his upper half mostly exposed.  
  
“You’re quite easy on the eyes...I’m sure you’ll have no trouble with the ladies in the future, Ichigo.” She giggled and flirted, her large eyes taking in the smooth skin she’d exposed.  
  
His brows arched slightly as his name, which he was positive he’d not given to her, tumbled from her lips. She laughed again, taking note of the look. “Master Grimmjow gives us the names of our partners for the evening, so that we might call them by that. Keeps things more comfortable and personal.”  
  
“Oh... He seems nicer than I was expecting.” Ichigo prompted, a little grateful that she’d been the one to turn the conversation towards the slave trader he was supposed to be investigating. It made his job easier, more natural, like he wasn’t really fishing for information.  
  
She shrugged and nodded. “Certainly handsome, if nothing else.” She grinned up at him, sending him a knowing wink. Ichigo chuckled and agreed, but took note of how she did not agree with what he’d said about Jaegerjaquez.  
  
The hand settled against his clothed member -now half hard because of her stimulation- found the button of his pants, making quick work of it before both of her hands began gliding backward, working around his waist along the smooth, sensitive skin just above his hips.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, the girl’s eyes went wide under furrowing brows as she paused, one hand still worked partially under Ichigo’s shirt along his hip. Her fingers brushed skin-warmed metal and leather, feeling pronounced engravings and smooth curves.  
  
Ichigo paused as well, brows furrowing slightly in confusion before shooting to his hair line as realization dawned on him. His badge. She’d found his badge. “I...uh...” He stumbled for what to say, a believable excuse for having a badge on him. Would she freak out? Would she give him away or scream? He’d worked far too hard, it couldn’t really have all been for not.  
  
“Y-you’re a cop...” She mumbled, her voice almost in awe as she watched his reactions. When his eyes only went all the wider, her hands immediately left his body like touching him had burned, clasping over her pretty features as her jaw dropped. “Oh my god...you’re a straight cop...”  
  
“No! No...” Ichigo scrambled, “I just forgot to take it off..! I-I’m off duty...”  
  
But she clearly saw through his desperate cover and ignored what he said. She’d worked this business for too long not to be able to read her clients, to know when someone was lying or faking. “I-is Master Grimmjow under investigation?” She didn’t wait for the detective to answer, she didn’t need to, so she kept going, her mind running away as she thought out loud. One thought stood out above everything else; was it over? “I wont tell him! I promise, I wont say anything to anybody...but... I-I can’t help you..I-he...”  
  
She stuttered and Ichigo could see how suddenly terrified she looked at the prospect of it. And he couldn’t blame her: should Jaegerjaquez catch wind, she would be in a very dangerous position. But her pretty grey eyes turned to catch his again, widening all the further as something came to mind and she continued in a whispered voice.  
  
“But Shiro...He can! He’ll do it, he’s not like the rest...he’s not...”  
  
“Who? Who’s that?” Ichigo reached out, gently grabbing her shoulders as he made her slow down and focus on him again. She was young, and now frightened and surely panickng. But this was important, he needed to know everything she could tell him, anything that would help, and his slightly embarrassed, unsure demeanor melted away as the mission came back around to something he was better qualified to deal with.  
  
“I wont tell them who you are.” She repeated in a quiet rush, reassuring him, excited and yet terrified all at once. “Come back next week, ask for the exotic. Everyone in this circle knows about him, ask for the exotic you’ve heard so much about... He’ll tell you everything you want to know...” She looked like she would cry, her big grey eyes going soft and glistening, watery. Then she scrambled forward, making the mattress bounce beneath them. She tugged at his clothes more, messed up his hair, she even leaned forward and bit him. Ichigo hissed a pained breath at the force of her teeth on his neck, jerking away to glare at her, but she ignored him, and began messing up her own hair and what passed for clothing. “Don’t bring that badge next time. No weapons, no wires or anything that might give you away. Master Grimmjow searches returning clients specifically to prevent this...”  
  
Ichigo nodded his understanding. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” He asked, voice quiet and calm, soothing.   
  
She shook her head, taking a deep breath, before shaking it again. “No...no, I’m sorry...I would help, but I-I can’t...”  
  
“It’s alright, ok? It’s fine, I understand.” Ichigo nodded again, meeting her large, grey eyes. “You’ve already helped me out a lot. I’ll get you out of here, ok?”  
  
She didn’t say anything to that, and sat still, simply looking at him for a long moment. Finally, she leaned back again, still quiet, her eyes wide as she continued to simply stare at him. An almost hopeful expression creased her features as a single, tiny tear streaked one of her cheeks. “Please...please help him...”


	4. Chapter 4

**••• The estate near The Shallows : 252 days ago  •••**  
  
“This is the one you were talking about.” It was less of a question, more of a statement, said in dull, not quite polite tones.  
  
Shiro glared up at the man. He wasn’t particularly tall, though by no means short either. Nothing really stood out about him; brown hair cut short but not buzzed, brown eyes, rather plain features, though closer to handsome than to the opposite side of the spectrum. But there was a flatness to the man, a coldness that sent ice through Shiro’s veins, made him curl his lip and snarl a small growl.  
  
The man arched a brow at him ever so slightly, the barest hint of a quirk tilting one side of his thin lips. He stared through the bars of the cell with an appraising, professional gaze. Clinical, like he was merely deciding on the worth of a product rather than looking at a living, breathing person.  
  
Shiro didn’t like anything about the man; didn’t like the way he looked at him, didn’t like the set, controlled look on his features. He didn’t like massive inhuman guard standing silently at the man’s side, looking down over the brunette's shoulder at Shiro, but not really seeing him. But most of all, Shiro didn’t like that Grimmjow had yet to turn the man away, to tell him that the pale slave wasn’t on the list yet.  
  
“He still seems rather wild.” The man said, his voice even and not quite friendly.  
  
“Szayel has come up with the means to negate that while he’s in use.” Grimmjow rumbled, standing a few feet back and out of the way as the big slave trader watched, arms crossed comfortably over his chest.  
  
“Is he clean?”  
  
“Of course.” Grimmjow snorted a derisive sound, “You think I would ever touch him otherwise? C’mon, Aizen, you should know better than anyone how clean I keep my product.”  
  
The man, Aizen, finally turned those cold brown orbs away, glancing at the slave trader. “Come now, Grimmjow. I know you also have another whore house further in The Shallows that isn’t quite so clean.”  
  
The blue haired man barked a laugh, throwing his hands up a bit, in one of those you caught me gestures. “That one’s strictly business though, this one’s pleasure. I keep the clean ones here, away from my polluted stock.”  
  
The slightest hints of amusement flashed through cynical eyes. “Yes, I suppose even the sick have needs.” Aizen commented, before turning back to continue his inspection of the pale, mixblooded slave. “I trust my usual room is available?”  
  
“Go have yourself a drink, and I’ll have everything ready in a few minutes.” Grimmjow smirked, those fiery blue eyes finally panning over to settle on Shiro.  
  
The slave bared his teeth in answer.  
  
Aizen turned to leave, his silent guard following, Grimmjow just behind them. The hold was silent for all of two minutes, none of the others daring to make a noise and Shiro dreading what was in store for him. Then the door at the end of the hall opened up again, and Szayel and Grimmjow came back.  
  
They backed Shiro into a corner of his cage before Grimmjow caught hold of the pale lad, wrenching his arms around behind him and pushing him face first into the solid cement wall so that he couldn’t really fight or struggle against them. It didn’t keep him from trying though, and he certainly didn’t make it easy for them.  
  
“I’ve added a bit of a mild sedative,” Szayel explained as he pulled the protective cap off the needle in his elegant hands. His voice had the sickly sweet chime to it and Shiro knew he was in trouble. The magic-user caught hold of one of Shiro’s arms, quickly and skillfully slipping the sharp point through pale flesh. “It should make you drowsy for a few minutes, and begin to wear off just as the other chemicals begin to take affect.”  
  
Grimmjow released him after a few seconds, making sure the full dose had been administered. True to what the pink haired man had said, almost instantly Shiro began feeling the numbing effects of the drugs. He stumbled in his effort to back further away from his captors, and Grimmjow snagged hold of him before he could actually hit the ground.  
  
“I won’t...let ya do this ta me...” Shiro mumbled, more to himself than to the two men half holding him up as he was pulled from his cell, defiant even when he could hardly think.  
  
“Too late.” A wicked grin creased Grimmjow’s handsome features. “I’ve already won.”  
  
Shiro hardly even registered the heavy thud of the door to the slave hold closing behind them. The trip up the staircase that led to the second floor was a blur, his steps stumbling and his balance off. But Grimmjow had no trouble keeping him up and moving and the drugs that stole his coordination and dulled his awareness also kept him from struggling. The smirk on the big man’s features was testament to just how pleased by that the slave trader was.  
  
They led him down the hall and to the room Aizen always preferred when visiting Grimmjow’s establishment. This room, unlike most of the others, lacked most of the sultry colors and had a clean, sterile feel to it; white sheets on the bed, a light colored tile flooring, crisp but not harsh lighting. They deposited the half aware slave on the bed and left, locking the door behind them to insure that should Shiro be conscious enough to make it to the door, he wouldn’t be able to get out.  
  
Aizen entered the room a few minutes later, his guard right behind him. He locked the door behind himself and paused, looking over the exotic slave’s mostly nude form. The pale mixblood panted where he lay on the bed, sedatives beginning to wear off and an unwanted need beginning to take hold. He pulled his legs up, sheets already mused up from the way he was beginning to writhe. Pale fingers clenched tight, twisting into the blankets near his ever so slightly flushed features. The liquid gold of his irises were a little duller than they had been back in the slave hold, less fiery, and his pupils were dilated in a telling way, making his inverted eyes look dark and needy.  
  
Aizen chuckled a small, sardonic sound, and moved over to the bed. He bent slightly, running his fingertips through a few ashen locks, silken strands that nearly reached the bottoms of the pale lad’s shoulder blades. “They do such despicable things when they must, don’t they?”  
  
The young man jerked away, flushed features twisting into a disgusted sneer. “Don’ touch me.” He hissed out, voice thick. But the man hovering above him ignored him, and fingers -burning hot to the touch- trailed over the curve of his shoulder before tracing along his spine.  
  
Shiro shivered at the touch, a helpless, gasping breath escaping as his body automatically arched into that small amount of suddenly much needed contact. Fearful of his own reactions, the slave lurched away, struggling through the drugs clouding his system. He landed on the ground beside the bed mostly on his feet, and glared over the mattress at the brunet. There was little anger induced heat in the expression though, drugs in full swing now. He made the effort to round the bed, passed the would-be client, but quickly found Aizen’s mute guard to be in his way.  
  
He weakly snarled up at the massive, near colorless man for half a second before Aizen’s voice filled the silence. “On the bed, if you would.” He commanded his guard.  
  
To Shiro’s horror, the guard nodded a subtle motion and effortlessly pulled him from the ground. Three strides to the edge of the bed, before the guard tossed Shiro back to the mattress, where Aizen waited.  
  
He struggled, he really did. But there was little he could do while his forced need and hazed state weighed so heavily upon him. Touches that should have repulsed him made his skin feel as if on fire. Burning heat begged to be released and the ache deep in his pelvis demanded aid. In the very back of his mind, where his fear and his disgust and his resistance had been pushed, he cried, hating himself and hating the man on top of him.  
  
It seemed Grimmjow had finally found what he needed to make his pale slave compliant, and Shiro could do nothing about it. In the end, unable to focus on anything other than the need for release, he writhed and panted and moaned as Aizen took him, as much fear in his gaze as pleasure.  
  
 **••• The estate near The Shallows : present  •••**  
  
The sun was just dipping below the horizon to start another night. It’d been eight days since he’d made his first visit to the establishment he was investigating and Ichigo had spent most of that time trying to figure out who the girl he’d talked to had been, as well as the identity of the man she’d told him to ask for.  
  
Nelliel. It was such a pretty name for a beautiful young woman. Yet Ichigo had been unable to find anything on her. No missing persons reports, no records, not even a birth certificate or servitude records. He wasn’t really all that surprised though: it was entirely likely she’d been brought here from a different city altogether.  
  
He’d also been unsuccessful on finding anything about the man she’d mentioned; Shiro the exotic. But it was an odd name, likely not real, and he had no idea what the man looked like. He had however heard whispered rumors throughout the streets about a feisty halfblood in Jaegerjaquez’s stock and he wondered if that could be the supposed exotic Nelliel had mentioned.  
  
Ichigo sighed and cut the engine to the vehicle he was borrowing for the mission. The plates were fake, registered to him in a different city so that if Jaegerjaquez and his crew decided to check up on him, they would be led in the wrong direction and if asked, he could simply tell them he’d just recently moved to the area.  
  
His phone rang nearly as soon as the car was shut off, proving that even though he hadn’t seen signs of his own team, they were indeed nearby and watching. He picked it up before he got out of the car, muttering a quick greeting despite that he knew who was on the other end.  
  
“You’re positive this girl wouldn’t have said anything, Kurosaki?” The commander asked over the line. He’d seemed particularly paranoid since Ichigo had reported to him the very same night the detective had had his conversation with the young slave woman.   
  
Ichigo couldn’t really blame the commissioner though. There was a lot hinging on his identity staying secret. If the girl had said anything to Jaegerjaquez, he’d be in some serious trouble when he walked through the front door, unarmed and unable to contact his team. “I’m sure, sir. She’ll stay quiet. She wants out, she’s just scared to be the mole.”  
  
The line was quiet for a few moments. “And what about this man she told you about?”  
  
Ichigo sighed, growing antsy as he stared through the windshield at the estate. “It’s all in my report, sir, she didn’t tell me much. Just a name and that he was different than the others.”  
  
“You’re going without a wire, Ichigo...be careful. She could be setting you up.” The commissioner could sense his detectives growing annoyance. The stubborn young man wasn’t the type to really put much thought into what he did, he tended to just run off and dive in headfirst.  
  
“Or she could be telling me the truth.” Ichigo countered, believing what the young lady had told him. He’d taken profiling courses and excelled in nearly every field in the academy, he knew what to look for when talking to someone. “It makes sense that Jaegerjaquez would search returning clients. You said so yourself, he’s paranoid and wont stand for another investigation.”  
  
Ichigo finally pushed the car door open, climbing from the vehicle and into the balmy, stale air of this side of the city. “Besides,” he continued, a bit of smirk showing in his voice. “if something goes wrong, you wont need a wire to know. I’ll make a mess for Jaegerjaquez to clean up.” He would burn the building down if he had to.  
  
He hung up, pulled the battery from the phone, and threw both pieces back into the borrowed car before locking it up. Sticking his hands into his pockets, he glanced down both sides of the street before jogging across and up to the front, double doors of Jaegerjaquez’s establishment.  
  
Like the week before, the doors were unlocked, the lobby area neat and tidy. He turned to the woman seated behind the window to his right and she looked up with a bit of a surprised smile. “Back again, Mr. Kurosaki?”  
  
Ichigo smiled at the woman, realizing Jaegerjaquez now likely knew he was there, despite that he didn’t appear to be in the room. Just a few minutes later, Ichigo was joined by a thin, pink haired man that he hadn’t seen the first time he’d been there. Clearly the effeminate man worked alongside Jaegerjaquez though, as he came from deeper within the estate and wasn’t being escorted by Jaegerjaquez himself.  
  
“Welcome.” The man greeted as his feet touched the tile flooring. His voice was an oddly musical chime, pretty just like he was. Golden yellow eyes sparkled behind thick framed glasses as they trailed Ichigo’s figure in an appraising way. It sent a cold jolt through Ichigo’s spine, but then it was gone, and the man was moving again. “You must be Mr. Kurosaki. I’m afraid Grimmjow’s busy at the moment, but he’s assured me he’ll be in the hold by the time we make it down there.”  
  
Thin fingers settled against his shoulder for the briefest of moments as the pink haired man turned Ichigo toward the stairs, motioning for them to go the way he’d come. The touch left an oddly cold sensation behind that Ichigo took note of, but didn’t react outwardly to. There was something very strange about the elegant looking male.  
  
Unlike the short trip before, when he’d been escorted by Jaegerjaquez, this walk was silent. They made it to the hold and the pink haired man pushed the apparently unlocked door open wide, allowing Ichigo to proceed him. Grimmjow was already within, awaiting his arrival and the big slave trader and the pink haired man shared a quick look that Ichigo yet again didn’t react to. A short nod from the nameless man, before he turned and left again, and Grimmjow turned back to Ichigo with a wide and friendly grin.  
  
“Couldn’t stay away, I see.” The big male laughed, his deep voice an amused rumble.  
  
“What can I say,” Ichigo chuckled, slipping back into the persona he’d created for this investigation. No need to tip the man off that he realized something was going on around him. “The rumors were true. You provide quite the quality service.”  
  
Grimmjow barked a laugh, “That’s good to hear! I trust you’ve only heard good things, then?”  
  
“Oh yes,” Ichigo nodded, a smile on his lips as he let his eyes scan down the rows of slaves. He vaguely caught the girl from his last visit glance at him, but her gaze didn’t linger and neither did his, for which he was grateful. “Speaking of rumors... I’ve been hearing quite a bit about this supposed exotic you have. What’s that all about? If you don’t mind me asking.”  
  
“Not all.” Grimmjow practically purred, leading the way further down the aisle that ran between the cells. He paused just before Nelliel’s, but his back was to the girl as his blue eyes glanced over to Ichigo, then settled on the occupant of the cell across from the female slave’s. “Seems you’re quite the lucky man, Mr. Kurosaki. He’s actually available right now.”  
  
Ichigo let out a small laugh at that, and moved to stand beside the bigger male. Chocolaty brown eyes widened as he took in the odd appearance of the slave Jaegerjaquez was showing off. It was suddenly more than clear why everyone called him ‘exotic’.   
  
Long, pale legs were currently curled below the young man where he sat on his cot, pushed all the way into the back corner and as far away from the cage’s door as possible. What clothing he was given to wear just barely covered his private areas and backside and rode up along narrow, slim hips. His abdomen was mostly hidden by his knees from the way he sat, but Ichigo got the impression of lean, wiry muscle. His arms were crossed defensively over his chest, protectively, his fingers wrapped around his upper arms tight enough that black nails dug small crescents into the pale flesh of his biceps. His face was turned defiantly away from them, but the curling of colorless lips and the baring of white teeth was impossible to miss, as was the brilliant red from a healing gash that split his bottom lip. Dark, purple-ish green marred his otherwise pallid features, coloring his high cheekbone in a fading bruise that was also on it’s way to healing, likely gained from the same encounter that had split his lip. Long, ashen hair hung in loose, shimmering strands down his back, clinging about his lean shoulders and nearly reaching the bottom of his ribcage. But what really caught Ichigo’s attention were the lad’s eyes; gold swam with indignant, fear-fueled rage, only looking all the brighter and accentuated by the black that surrounded them. There was a dull, flat look to them though. A guarded, self imposed apathy that made Ichigo think of someone trying to protect what little of themselves they had left.  
  
This was him. This was the man that would help him finally take down Jaegerjaquez and deal the black market a decisive blow. Ichigo knew it.   
  
“What’s your name?” He asked the lad, taking a step closer to the bars of the cell.  
  
The figure flinched back further still, but didn’t move to face him directly or answer.  
  
“His name’s whatever you feel like calling-”  
  
“Shiro.” The slave’s oddly distorted voice interrupted the big trafficker and the look that flashed through blue eyes let Ichigo know it wasn’t supposed to happen. “My name’s Shiro.”  
  
The name Nelliel had given him. Ichigo fell quiet again, with the barest of nods to show he’d heard the pale lad.  
  
At the orange haired man’s side, Grimmjow watched Kurosaki’s reactions to the troublesome slave they were looking at. “Should I get him and his room ready for you?”  
  
“Hm?” Ichigo started slightly, eyes glancing off to the side to look at the blue haired man before going back to the slave. “Oh, yes please, that would be excellent.”  
  
Grimmjow laughed and nodded, sweeping his hand out, back toward the hold door. The two left and Ichigo was once more shown to the bar and given a complimentary drink for his patronage. He once more didn’t drink it.  
  
He ended up waiting in the bar a little longer than the last time, and he couldn’t help but wonder about it. He got the feeling that everything about Jaegerjaquez’s business was very smooth, like a well oiled machine. The extra wait, the pause, felt like a snag he wasn’t expecting.  
  
The slave trader finally made his appearance again and if anything out of the ordinary had happened during the readying of the room, it didn’t show in his handsome features or those impossibly blue eyes. Ichigo was once more led through the long hallway, doors lining either side. They paused before a door nearly at the very end, and Grimmjow pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the door but not opening it, before he handed the key over to Ichigo. “I hope the room is to your liking. Unfortunately, he’s our only one that requires certain...extra measurements, so we only allow him to preform in this room.”  
  
“Oh, no, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Ichigo gave the man an appreciative smile before turning toward the door again. When the bigger male turned to leave back the way they’d come, he pushed it open and entered, carefully closing it behind himself. Wary of others coming in after him, he locked it to give them at least some semblance of privacy, despite that he knew Jaegerjaquez surely had a spare key.  
  
Of course, when he entered, his vision was pulled directly to the pale lad currently glaring murder at him. Seated upon the bed, in the very center, the slave he’d chosen curled his lip in a sluggish sneer. A lilting, distorted rumble escaped him, but it sounded more like a purr than the growl it was surely meant to be, tame and throaty.  
  
There was a heaviness to the slave, a lack of alertness that hadn’t been there only minutes before. Around the young man’s throat, a heavy leather collar had been wrapped, a chain leading from the loop on it to snake across the mattress and wrap around the sturdy bed post. It wasn’t so tight that it constricted the man’s breathing, but tight enough that he would be unable to remove it, or slip more than a finger under it. That the slave didn’t bother to attempt removing it, or even react to it being there, spoke volumes to Ichigo’s trained mind: the lad knew it wouldn’t come off because he’d tried before, had long grown used to it.  
  
Ichigo took a single step further into the room and wasn’t so surprised when the slave jerked backward and away, but his pace was as measured as Ichigo’s, just as cautious and wary as he glared from under furrowed brows.  
  
“I’m not here for what you think I am...” The detected soothed, his voice low and quiet.  
  
His statement earned him a derisive snort and with his next step, the pale lad backed away yet further. Bare feet hit the floor and put the large bed between them, but there was no where the mixblood could go, chained in place so he could no longer flee. There was an awkwardness to the way he moved and he stumbled slightly, one hand shooting out to brace him against the bedpost to his right. But the misstep hadn’t been from the heavy chain weighing on him and Ichigo frowned as he watched.  
  
“Like I never heard tha’ one b’fore...” The slave snarled, but his attempted aggression was less than fearsome, an odd quality to his already distorted voice, like an underlying airiness.  
  
Shiro could feel as the second effect of the dose he’d been given began kicking in. The tranquilizer had begun to wear off, leaving him more mobile and aware again, but he could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, clattering against his ribs. It felt as though his blood was on fire and all the heat was forcing his lungs to supply him with oxygen in shorter and shorter, panting breaths. He needed air, but the oxygen only fueled the fire in his belly and so the more he panted, the hotter his need grew, the more insistent and harder to ignore.  
  
Once upon a time, what seemed like forever ago now, he would have been embarrassed as the pitiful excuse for clothing he wore began tenting in front. Now however, he hardly even noticed, despite that there was another in the locked room with him. All he noticed was the slowly building ache that whited out everything else in his mind.  
  
“Ya stay right over there.” He demanded in an almost breathless way. He was determined to last as long as he could, despite that he knew he’d never hold out against what had been done to him. He never could, no matter how many times he’d been through this. They changed the dosage and the ingredients enough to keep him from building too high of a tolerance. And he knew, in a matter of minutes, he would soon forget why he was trying to refrain from letting the orange haired male take him in the first place.  
  
Ichigo frowned as he watched the lad try to round the bed. The chain wasn’t long enough for such an action without climbing across, and so he was halted before he made it to the foot of the mattress. His breathing was steadily elevating and even as he fell quiet, the slave’s soft pants filled the silence. He hung his head slightly, pale hands reaching forward to first flatten against plush blankets before twisting in them.  
  
As Ichigo watched, his gaze wondered away from tightly clenched fists and his eyes widened, features flushing a light red as he realized the poor slave was very obviously growing hard. A stuttered sound escaped the young man’s colorless throat through grit teeth; an almost helpless, whining sound.  
  
Confused as to what was going on, Ichigo took another step closer and this time the same actions that had previously received negative and wary reactions earned nothing but a barely audible, husky sound as oddly inverted eyes slowly raised fractionally, just enough to glance toward Ichigo. The detective could practically see them growing darker, more hazed as he watched.  
  
The lad leaned forward, grinding almost desperately against the edge of the mattress, like he just needed contact, needed stimulation. The action was enough to pull loose the skimpy bit of cloth he wore, letting it fall to the floor at his feet and Ichigo’s features went even brighter red as the bixbreed’s hard, saluting member was freed completely.  
  
The pale slave slowly sank to his knees, one hand pulling free of the blankets to disappear behind the mattress and away from Ichigo’s view, though it was obvious where it was headed. The young man’s head tilted back, long, ashen hair hanging down his back, and Ichigo couldn’t decide if his features were twisted more with pleasure or with the urge to be ill. The slave panted a whimpering breath as his fingers danced across his saluting shaft, his eyes too dark and unfocused where they trained in the detective’s general direction.  
  
Ichigo’s frown only deepened, realizing something was very wrong. Only moments ago the young man had been off balance but making threats, aware and ready to fight if he had to, but now he seemed a wanton mess, the complete opposite of what he’d been before. His actions were all wrong and none of it could have simply been for show, it was too genuine, too real.  
  
Edging around the foot of the large bed, Ichigo slowly approached the lad. Inverted, not quite human eyes were slow to follow his figure, slow to focus on him, but even then it seemed traces of his previous aggression still swam below the surface. It was just dulled and masked, drowned.  
  
Ichigo edged closer still, moving within arm’s reach with cautious, quiet motions, not knowing if he’d bring that aggression to the front line again. He knelt on the floor beside the slave, features heating up to a brilliant red when the mixblood didn’t pause in what he was doing and instead turned toward the detective, other hand pulling free of the blankets and reaching toward him.  
  
“I-I’m sorry, but I already told you I’m not here for that...” Ichigo muttered, gently pushing the hand tugging at his clothing away. It was clear what the colorless male was seeking, even though he said nothing through his panting.  
  
The slave wasn’t deterred though, and in his unnatural need, Shiro simply reached out toward the man sitting so near again. He could practically feel the heat radiating in the space between them, wafting from the orange haired man’s body. This is what he wanted, right? It was why anyone ever came to see him. It was what they both wanted now.  
  
Ichigo grabbed the wrist of the hand trying to crawl up his thigh. Turning the pale man’s hand palm up, he settled his fingers against the underside of the slave’s wrist in search of the man’s pulse. “Your heart rate is through the roof...” He mumbled, more to himself than to the slave trying to feel him up. “Shiro, right? That’s what you told me?” Of course he didn’t get an answer, just a vague recognition as the lad’s gaze landed on his features rather than his body. “Shiro,” He tried again, releasing the man’s hand and raising his own above his head. He snapped his fingers a few times, the extra motion and sound slow to direct Shiro’s attention upward and toward the dim lighting. “I’m not all that great at this,” he explained as he worked, moving his hand to cast a shadow across Shiro’s eyes and test his pupil responses. “but my father was a doctor, so I know a few tricks.”   
  
Lowering his hand again, the detective carefully took Shiro’s features in his hands. The slave was burning to the touch, nearly too hot to be a healthy temperature, like a sudden fever had taken hold. Using his thumb, Ichigo gently lifted the pale lid of one inverted eye a bit more, opening the eye a bit wider to better see the glazed look normally vibrant gold held. Then he frowned all the deeper as what was going on finally clicked and began making sense. “Are they drugging you?”   
  
Something flashed in that heavy lidded gaze, like lightening behind dark storm clouds. “So what?” He huffed out, his tone caught somewhere between lust and anger. “S’at really matter? You’re gonna get what ya came for, right?” He continued, voice thick despite the lilt.  
  
The slave made the half-assed effort to climb into Ichigo’s lap, but Ichigo carefully pushed him back again, hands careful where they touched and eyes staying adamantly directed above the man’s neckline.  
  
Clearly some part of Shiro was still awake, the defiant side that always fought. Even through the drugs that took away his ability and want to deny, some part of him must have still realized that this was not what he wanted. Maybe it was simply bitter hatred that colored his voice with that slight ring of petulance, an instinctive defiance that helped him keep fighting. But it seemed that the abuse he experienced multiple times every night was also wearing on him, if only slowly. He wasn’t really fighting the drugs, wasn’t really fighting what he was trying to do, merely recognizing it and perhaps recognizing that he shouldn’t want it. There was no fear there, though, not like there used to be. There was no horror. A numbness was settling in it’s place, a callous that hid the vulnerable parts from harsh reality, from the reality that this was his life now, that he was no more than a plaything for the amusement and satisfaction of others. And he was powerless to stop it.  
  
“Yes...” Ichigo told the drugged and needy male, “It does matter. I’m not hear for-for that. I need you clear minded for what I came for...”  
  
The detective climbed to his feet, choking a small sound when Shiro didn’t follow, but instead wrapped pale arms around his upper legs, hands settling on his butt, and brought his pale lips close to Ichigo’s clothed crotch. He quickly bent, tugging the slave to his feet and it was a good thing he’d had a good hold of the other because Shiro stumbled and nearly dropped back to the ground, his breathing heavy and his mind clouded with drug induced want and need.  
  
Ichigo eased the lad back so that he sat on the bed’s edge and Shiro scooted further so that he was once more sitting in the very center of the large mattress. He half attempted to snag hold of the detective, intent to pull what he thought was a client down to the bed with him, but Ichigo once more gently removed the hand from his clothing. After extracting himself, Ichigo backed away from the bed again, running a hand through his spiky orange hair as he sighed and tried to figure out what to do.  
  
He couldn’t just leave, he needed to actually talk to this man, but it wasn’t going to work out well if the drugged up slave couldn’t keep his hands to himself...or...idle, for that matter.  
  
Ichigo looked about the large room before moving toward the opposite wall and taking a seat on the plush couch that sat there facing the bed. He could only imagine what such a large seating area was for, when Shiro clearly couldn’t reach it. Maybe the key clients were given could unlock the collar, but Ichigo doubted that, and the girl he’d talked to the week prior had told him it was common for others to watch. The couch he now sat on would accommodate at least a few people. The thought was vile. Not only was Jaegerjaquez obtaining paperless slaves illegally, but he was drugging the ones he couldn’t control and he clearly made them do horrible things against their will.  
  
But that was just the start, a scratch to the surface. Ichigo had yet to learn of all that Shiro could tell him, of all that the exotic mixbreed had gone through.  
  
It took more than an hour for the drugs in Shiro’s system to begin wearing off. During that time, Ichigo did his best to ignore the sounds the pale slave made as he took care of his throbbing issue on his own, unable to control his need and therefor his actions. Needing a distraction but unable to leave, Ichigo looked about the spacious room he’d rented for the night. This room wasn’t quite like the other room he’d been in. Aside from being a little larger, there was more substance, more personality to it. The fabrics were richer; the bedspread, curtains, the fabric of the couch, the rug. While the bed in the other room had been elaborate and pretty in design, the one in this room seemed of it’s own category. It was just as intricate, just as aesthetically pleasing, but it was sturdy, heavy. The corner posts reached clear to the ceiling like support columns and though it was well covered and hard to see because of the elaborate canopy of sheer, sultry cloth, Ichigo was fairly certain they were either attached to the ceiling, or went through it. The bed was meant to stay right where it was. There was a chest of drawers carved from the same type of heavy, sturdy wood as the bed nearby, along the wall the headboard rested against. Only one edge of it would have just barely been within the chained up slave’s reach, but it’s top was decorated with an assortment of small trinkets; jewelry and dried flowers and the like.  
  
“Gifts.” The slave muttered, eyeing the orange haired man as he looked at some of the items but respectfully didn’t touch anything. He lay, slightly curled in on himself, panting as he slowly regained his breath and his body finally began to cool. No longer feeling as though he would combust, as though he needed release, Shiro rolled over so that he lay on his stomach, head turned to face the client that hadn’t touched him. The only person that had never taken advantage of him while in the unnatural state he was forced into. “From admirers.” The word had a bitter taste to it, spit forth as though it had stung.  
  
Orange brows arched slightly as Ichigo cast his gaze over the dresser’s surface before he took a step back and away from it. He finally turned toward the pale man on the bed, some what grateful when he realized the young man had made the effort to tug some of the blanket over his lower region, trying to make himself more decent after he’d put on quite the show. But Ichigo cared little for that, and was more concerned about Shiro’s well-being at the moment.   
  
He seemed to be regaining his normal color, or rather loosing the extra color from the unhealthy flush that had accompanied his hazed state. The returning of startling, colorless white made the slowly fading bruise stand out all the more against his porcelain features where it ringed the underside of one eye.  
  
Shiro noticed the stranger looking, and gingerly pressed his fingertips to the damaged area, suppressing a wince. “Another gift.” He said by way of explanation to the silent question. It hadn’t really needed answered though, the cause was obvious enough. Those inverted, striking eyes panned off to the side and didn’t quite meet Ichigo’s own as Shiro continued in a quiet voice. “Thank you...for not...”  
  
Ichigo nodded the smallest of motions, brows furrowing all the further as he studied the pale slave. From all the research he’d done into how Jaegerjaquez ran his business, Ichigo knew that the client could normally request different or certain rooms for his or her time with the chosen slave. Upon entering, however, Jaegerjaquez had told him that this was the only room he allowed the pale lad to use and now Ichigo could see why. Nelliel, the female slave, had told him this Shiro character was different than the rest of them. She’d said he’d talk and Ichigo was beginning to realize that it wasn’t because he wasn’t afraid, it was because he was terrified, he was desperate. The chain and collar, the heavy, immobile bed, everything just out of reach, the drugs; they were all extra measurements not needed with the other slaves because this one was different. Shiro’s desperation and fear made him fight, rather than cower like the others.  
  
Shiro was beginning to sit up, his motions careful and cautious. Supporting his weight on one hand, he used his other to keep part of the dark colored blanket tugged over his waistline. His fist was clenched so tightly in the fabric that sharp bone pressed against thin, pale skin to make his knuckles look rigid and hard and Ichigo, trained to notice the little details that most people missed, took note that there was no bruising there, nothing to show that he’d fought back against whomever had bruised his face up.  
  
“This is always the worst part.” Shiro groaned, head hanging slightly and long hair -mused from his writhing- falling to frame his pallid features and hang down around his shoulders and chest. He closed his eyes against the subtle swimming the room seemed to be doing, nauseous and dizzy as an after affect of everything the drugs did to his body and mind. A bit of a bitter and sardonic smirk split his features: how wonderful of Grimmjow and his doctor to not only find a way to make him do as they pleased, but then make him sick on top of it. Because clearly all the self loathing and guilt and disgusting feel of being dirty and used wasn’t enough.  
  
It wasn’t so bad anymore though. It used to be worse, the drugs used to last longer and so did the after affects he would have to struggle through, but Szayel and Grimmjow had worked out a different dosage and strength. The drugs they now gave him were just as strong, just as over powering, but they wore off quicker. When under the influence of his crazed need, he tended to wear clients out. They usually paid for a full night, but rarely lasted more than an hour, two at the most and so would be ready to leave. Seeing how popular Shiro had become with the rougher crowd that frequented Grimmjow’s establishment, they wanted to be able to rent him out several times in a night. So after he wore a client out and said client left, they would clean him up and drop him back in his cell for an hour or so until another guest took interest in him.   
  
The first time it’d happened, the drugs he’d been given for the first client had worn off halfway through being used by the second and Shiro had not only vomited on the man as he came around and grew nauseous while said man had been thrusting into him, but had also left the man with a broken jaw and dislocated hip in his fervent struggle to get away. So they started chaining him to the bed so he couldn’t run from clients, but they could still get away from him if it happened again. When it turned out that it wasn’t just a fluke, that the first dose really was going to wear off at inopportune times almost every single time, they started giving him a second dose just before the second client used him. That didn’t quite do the trick either, though. After nearly making him OD a few times, they realized they needed something that would wear off in time for them to give him another dose and thus, through trial and error that had nearly killed the exotic slave, they had ended up with what they were giving him now.  
  
After a few minutes, Shiro pulled himself into a bit of a more upright sitting position, crossing long legs under himself. He didn’t bother climbing from the bed or trying to put more distance between himself and the stranger currently standing before him. He did watch the orange haired man’s every move though. “So what are ya here for, then?”  
  
“I was told you could help me.” Ichigo answered truthfully, though wasn’t quite ready to simply jump right into who he was and what he sought just yet.  
  
The pale slave snorted, lip curling slightly. “Yeah, well, I help a lotta people so you’re gonna have ta be more specific.”  
  
Ichigo crossed his arms over his chest, a slight scowl settling over his features. He took his time trying to decide just how to go about this. “I know that you’re not supposed to be in here, Shiro. I know Jaegerjaquez is getting his slaves illegally.”  
  
“This ain’t news ta me.” Shiro sneered, a sarcastic ring to his odd tone. Gold on black rolled before redirecting at the stranger. “This another a his tests? Ya can tell ‘im ta go fuck himself.”  
  
The detective’s scowl only deepened as he studied the slave, silent. He recognized the defensive, aggressive front for what it was: the lad was nervous, confused about his motives and untrusting of anyone or anything around him. “No, I have nothing to do with Jaegerjaquez or his business... I can get you out of here, Shiro, but I need help to do it.”  
  
Those oddly inverted eyes narrowed, Shiro’s only response for a few moments, before he seemed to grow perhaps both more suspicious and sarcastic again. “Hah. Tha’s real funny. You from the north station or the east?”  
  
It was Ichigo’s turn to pause, but rather than narrowing, his eyes widened a bit. They’d known about the east station. It was located far too closely to the slave trader’s estate to be completely uncorrupted, but he hadn’t realized the big man had his hands in more than one station. “He’s got crooked cops in both?”  
  
“What?” Shiro’s expression mimicked the more colorful male’s, eyes widening as the stranger seemed to insinuate that Shiro was right, that he was actually a cop. Or at least he hadn’t denied it and that was nearly the same as a confirmation. “You’re really a...”  
  
Realizing that just like with Nelliel, the man sitting before him had surely long ago learned to tell when people were lying to him, the young investigator decided honesty was going to be his friend in this case. He would never gain an abuse victim's trust if he lied. Ichigo nodded. “West station, 15th precinct. I’m a detective, building a case against Jaegerjaquez. Nelliel told me you’d be the one to talk to and now I think she’s right. You’ll help me, wont you, Shiro?”  
  
Shiro sat in silence, taking in what he was being told. The look in his eyes was almost unreadable; too many conflicting things flashing through golden irises too quickly to put a name to any one thought or emotion. Then he snorted a harsh laugh. “You’re wastin’ your time.” His lilting voice was quiet, flat. “Ya can’t beat him. No one can. If ya value your life, you’ll leave and never come back, or he’ll break you too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**••• The estate : present •••**  
  
“You again.” Shiro half muttered through his panting as the door to his room was opened. His tone was beginning to take on that husky, thick edge to it, drugs already in full swing by the time his assigned client showed up. He had thought it odd that he’d been given his usual dose and taken to his room before he’d been selected by a would-be client. Part of him had thought that perhaps Grimmjow had decided to use him again, but that always happened in his cell, where all the other slaves could watch his humiliation and his suffering. And the bigger man rarely drugged him for it, preferring to force him into submitting. But all of that was hard to focus on right now, an unwanted coil tightening in the pit of his stomach and lighting heat through his abdomen and pelvis.  
  
Ichigo glanced down at his watch as he pushed the door closed behind himself with the quiet snick of the latch and a twist of the key, realizing the lad he’d determined would help him had already been drugged and intending to start timing how long it took for the forced medication to begin wearing off and leaving the hybrid slave clear minded again.   
  
“Me again.” He confirmed quietly, moving toward the couch that sat opposite of and facing the bed, “You’ll get to see me every week now. Jaegerjaquez and I set up appointments so I was guaranteed to get to visit you and not someone else.”  
  
“Lucky me. I catch your fancy too, detective?” Shiro all but purred, crawling toward the foot of the bed. The six foot or so length of chain only allowed for him to make it far enough for his fingertips to brush the sturdy wooden footboard of the large bed. It rattled slightly as it snaked along plush, dark colored bed-clothing before pulling tight and halting Shiro’s forward motions. Those heavy lidded, burning eyes traced Ichigo’s form with a dull but fevered interest. “Bet ya gotta lotta frustrations ta work out wit’ that kinda job. That’s why you’re here, right? Coz I’m the one Grimmjow let’s ‘em beat on?”  
  
Ichigo frowned, watching the naked slave, but his depthless eyes didn’t track Shiro’s body; not the fluid motions of smooth muscle, nor the slide of pale skin, not even the marks -all in various states of healing- that marred otherwise flawless skin. No, instead his gaze anchored on the lad’s clouded eyes, searching for the man he knew was trapped under the murky surface the drugs created. It was an almost painful thing to watch, and in the coming weeks, it was an hour that would make Ichigo physically ill to sit through as he had to watch what Shiro was reduced to.  
  
“S’ok...ya can be rough wit’ me.” Shiro breathed, on his knees, top half supported by one arm as he reached between his legs with his other hand. “I wont tell no one...” Then, for a split second, something broke through the drugged mask and pale features contorted in a terror that sent a lance through Ichigo’s chest. “Everyone else likes ta be.”  
  
“I would never do that.” Ichigo once again reassured the young man. “I wont hurt you, Shiro, I wont even touch you. I want to help.”  
  
“Right. Coz you’re a cop.”  
  
“Detective.” The slightest hint of a smirk tugged at one corner of Ichigo’s pink lips at the slave’s sarcastic nature, a little relieved, perhaps, that it was showing through even while drugged. But his amusement didn’t last long as Shiro began loosing himself to a rough, dirty pleasure he created for himself in his would-be client’s stead, his need overcoming him.  
  
 **••• 15th precinct, west of the city : a few hours ago •••**  
  
Ichigo stormed through the hall, chasing after the police commissioner as the man walked away. The carpet below his feet was a short, stain resistant navy blue with no padding below. They may as well have been walking directly on the cement foundation of the building. They were headed toward the back of the station, toward the commissioner’s office, passed rows of windows that looked into offices and other rooms. Most of the blinds were drawn, but from behind the few panes of glass that weren’t covered, other officers watched as the two men stormed by in a silent rush. There were no words echoing between the two men, but the expressions etched across their features were enough to give away that neither was pleased.  
  
Ichigo started up again as soon as the sound proof door was closed behind him. “You can’t expect this to be easy! You can’t expect him to just spill everything we need to nail Jaegerjaquez in one sitting.”  
  
“Ichigo,” The commander interrupted, his voice stern. “this is dangerous and you’re being reckless. He told you he would not help you. You told me that yourself. That’s two in a row. Two! You’re lucky that s.o.b isn’t hunting you down yet. How far do you plan to push your luck before Jaegerjaquez catches your trail? You think both of those slaves of his are going to keep their mouths closed while you look for yet another?”  
  
“I’m not looking for another.” Ichigo fired back, unwilling to back down. “Shiro will talk, trust me on this. This is my job, I know what I’m doing. But it’s going to take more than one meeting! He’s been through a lot of trauma, he needs to learn he can trust me before he’s going to talk. You’re an experienced officer, you should know these things.” Ichigo crossed his arms over his chest, his features set and his coffee brown eyes ablaze in that look that said he wasn’t about to budge an inch on the subject. “I’m a special investigator. You head a local police department. With all due respect, sir, I’m here because I lack field experience, not training or title. I will go over your head if I must: I am in the right here, and I will take Jaegerjaquez down.”  
  
The room went deadly silent, the air thick as the commissioner raised a single brow. But what the detective said was true. Ichigo had been assigned to his department because of the ramped crime around the city. He was fresh out of the academy, but Ichigo did technically hold a higher title than any of his seasoned officers. If he wanted to reach higher in the chain to gain permission, he would and the commissioner knew the fiery young detective wouldn’t hesitate to do it.  
  
From the other side of the room, as tension grew, a woman cleared her throat and both men turned toward her before the commissioner sighed and moved to shake her hand.   
  
“I suppose we should jump right in, then.” The woman said, her pretty features turned up into a smile that was somehow both flirty and professional. Her voice was calm but it held a playful chime to it, a hint of enjoyment. She made herself comfortable before being invited to do so, and sat in one of the chairs in the commissioner’s office.  
  
The commissioner motioned for Ichigo to sit as well before taking his own seat behind his desk. “Glad you could join us, Miss Yoruichi.”  
  
 **••• The estate : 236 days ago •••**  
  
Shiro’s head lolled as he attempted to look toward the man he knew was in the room with him. The collar felt unnaturally tight, more so than usual. He couldn’t breathe. The only sound he could hear emanating throughout the room was the rush of his pulse pounding in his ears, the frantic beat of his heart as the delicate muscle tried to cope with the chemicals that had been injected into the slave’s system, the drugs that were drowning it.  
  
He’d lost count of how long they’d been drugging him, but this was a first. They’d never given him a second dose before the first had worn off before. Something wasn’t right. His mind was surprisingly clear at the moment, but his body wasn’t working right. It terrified him. Nothing would move, nothing would respond, not even as the client climbed on top of him. He wanted to struggle, wanted to fight, to snarl and yell and push the man away, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.  
  
Shouted words, an angry tone. He didn’t even realize the man was thrusting into him. He didn’t register as something collided with the side of his face, jerking his head around and making a slow trial of red drip from his nose to stain his upper lip. He did realize the client wasn’t happy though, not that it really mattered.  
  
Shiro tried to look up at the man, fear squeezing tight around his stomach. But when he tried to bare his teeth at the client, tried to snarl a threat, it came out only as a wretched, gasping breath and it was then that Shiro remembered he really couldn’t breathe. Panic flared through his system, through his sluggish mind. He wasn’t registering that he was hyperventilating, pulling in too much oxygen. It wasn’t his breathing that wasn’t working right. His pulse pounded in his ears, too fast, too fast, but his heart was beating too slowly, too sluggishly and only getting slower as it was overloaded, trying to compensate for the extra influx of oxygen and the drugs squeezing around it.  
  
He clawed at the collar wrapped around his throat as he arched away from the bed, breathing in panicked, desperate gasps that didn’t seem to supply him with enough air. He vaguely registered the slamming of his door, the one he couldn’t reach because of the chain attached to his collar, but he didn’t know if someone was entering or leaving. Both? Another client? Was this session over already? The next thing his blurring vision picked up was pink, bright pink, as his eyes rolled back and he tasted blood in his mouth as his teeth clenched.  
  
The slave arched as another convulsion wracked through his body, pale fingers wrapped tight around the collar and black, talon-like nails scraping furrows across the pale skin below. Those exotic eyes rolled back, leaving only a sliver of gold visible and creating the illusion of all black, like a creature possessed.  
  
“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Grimmjow snarled, grabbing hold of the slave’s wrists and yanking his hands away from his throat. The lad was only doing more damage to himself anyway. Unlike what the slave trader was used to, Shiro didn’t try to pull from his grasp: he didn’t even seem to register someone was restraining him.  
  
“Not sure yet.” Szayel muttered, as he pushed his fingers under the leather collar to search out the slave’s pulse. He had a pretty good idea though. He’d worried about making the poor creature overdose, but arguing with his blue haired boss was never wise for one’s health.  
  
Elegant, pink brows arched high. “Oh...well that’s no good.” He muttered again, feeling how reedy and weak the pale halfbreed’s heartbeat was. “I hope you’re not too attached to this one.”  
  
Grimmjow sneered, a rumbling growl fleeing with his exhaled breath. “Fix him, I’m not done with him yet.”  
  
Shiro convulsed again, the most retched of desperate sounds escaping from his throat as the muscle of his body went rigid in an unhealthy jerk. Grimmjow pushed, forcing his arching body back to the bed so that he lay flat again. Pale fingers clawed at the slave trader’s corded forearms in the same motions they had been previously scraping against the slave’s pale throat. He didn’t even realize he was being held down, that his fingers had been pulled away from the collar he was desperately trying to remove.  
  
“We need to slow his breathing and raise his heartbeat. It seems in the process of shutting down.” Szayel informed, brilliant mind scrambling for answers, for a way to save the mixblood. But he wasn’t really a doctor, and he certainly wasn’t cut out for emergencies such as this. He simply knew how the human -and hollow- body worked, and combined that knowledge with his skillful magic to get his job done. His work was quick, dirty, and often brutal. It wasn’t really meant for delicate procedures, but he had to at least try, lest he bring on Grimmjow’s wrath.  
  
“How do we do that?” Grimmjow asked, arching a brow as he kept Shiro’s arms pinned against the slave’s bare chest, using his weight and position to hold the smaller male down and still.  
  
“You’re going to have to find a way to slow his breathing down so I can focus on the rest. Get him to breathe through his nose. In and out. Calm.” Szayel explained, laying his cold, long-fingered hands along the slave’s heaving ribcage, feeling the damage as best as he could from the surface. He pushed his hands upward, further along the slave’s chest until his fingers found where Grimmjow held the pale lad down.  
  
The bigger man pulled his hands up, bringing Shiro’s with him. Maneuvering so that he held both thin, pale wrists in one hand, he kept the slave’s arms up and out of the way while he clamped his free hand over the smaller male’s mouth. He shrugged when he looked up to find Szayel giving him a pointed expression. Crude perhaps, but effective for accomplishing what the doctor told him to do.  
  
As was to be expected, Shiro did begin to struggled from that. Already thinking he couldn’t breathe, when Grimmjow cut off half of his oxygen, the nearly unconscious lad lilted a distorted, guttural sound, writhing in the effort to get away. His chest heaved all the harder, long legs twisting and tangling in the bed’s sheets as he struggled.  
  
His magic invasive and the damage deep, Szayel flicked his wrists before tracing a single, thin finger down the very center of the slave’s chest, nail tracing over pale, colorless skin. Smooth flesh parted and seeped with red as the doctor cut himself an opening, much the same way he did when fixing broken bones.   
  
Shiro whimpered a barely audible sound behind Grimmjow’s hand, his inverted eyes rolling in an unhealthy and hardly aware way. His nostrils flared as he panted, as he tried to take in more oxygen than he actually needed, but his mind and body were telling him he still couldn’t breathe. His head lolled as he weakly tried to look toward the source of his pain, before his clouded mind fuzzed and the back of his head thunked back down against Grimmjow’s leg.  
  
“Be sure to hold him still...” Szayel warned, just before curling his fingers and spreading them outward, widening his opening. The slave responded more sharply this time, like some of the pain was helping to push aside some of what was clouding his senses. Obviously pained sounds, muffled and wordless and slurred, crawled up his throat behind the slave trader’s hand. Szayel continued, leaning close as he worked and searched out the invisible threads he needed to remove the problem. He mostly knew what he was looking for.  
  
Blood dripped from the gash as Szayel cut down to bone. It pooled around where Shiro lay, soaked up by the sheets and staining the mattress below. The doctor could hardly feel the smaller male’s heartbeat, despite that his fingers settled on the protective bone just above where the organ rested, but he could feel Shiro’s lungs and the slave’s breathing seemed to be calming as Grimmjow forced him to breath in and out through his nose.  
  
The doctor hummed a short sound, twisting his finger as though twirling a thin string around it. Bending said finger to anchor on what he’d found, he began to pull gently, like he always did. But his hand didn’t move and his pretty features creased in an expression that didn’t mar it often; confusion and discontent. After a moment of careful maneuvering, trying to pull the thread loose as gently as possible, he finally jerked up in a less than delicate motion.   
  
Shiro yelped a sharp sound, body going rigid and eyes snapping wide open to stare up at Grimmjow. All too clear, his gaze met brilliant blue for half a terror and pain-filled second before his entire body went limp in the slave trader’s hold and his heaving, desperate breaths stopped completely.  
  
“Szayel...” Grimmjow drawled, his voice very nearly a growl. “Did you just kill-”  
  
“No.” The magic-user hissed quietly. “I did not kill your favored whore.” But he didn’t look up from his work, pink brows furrowed. “It’s like a poison...” He gagged as if he would be sick, able to feel what was slowly trying to stop the slave’s heart through his magic, but he continued to draw his hand upward. Gore dripped in thick, turgid strands from his fingertips and for the briefest of moments, Grimmjow thought liquid crimson caught on a thin, spiderweb like...something, as it fell back to patter against Shiro’s pale flesh.  
  
“Ah, there...” Szayel mumbled, head tilting slightly as his other hand all but sank into the slave’s opened chest cavity, pushing under flesh. Thin fingers unhesitantly worked between two exposed ribs, easing aside muscle and cartilage, before flexing, scraping against something Grimmjow couldn’t see through all the blood and gore. Pulling his seemingly empty hand back out, fingers crossed like he held something between them, the slave’s body arched as if following the motion, as if whatever the magic-user was pulling from him was thick, stubborn and not pulling free. Szayel continued anyway, pulling his red slicked hand nearly above his head as he drew the thick, cloying drugs from the slave’s body.  
  
Then Shiro collapsed back to the bed and drew in a deep, ragged, but even breath. He started coughing almost instantly, thick, desperate sounds as his stomach clenched. The doctor and Grimmjow rolled him over as his stomach heaved, and emptied it’s contents all over the floor beside the bed; thick and chalky and smelling almost acidic.  
  
“We’re going to have to adjust that dose again.” Szayel sighed as they rolled the unconscious, but living slave back over. Grimmjow grunted and nodded, realizing what the halfblood doctor was telling him.  
  
It took Szayel nearly a half hour to pull the tears he’d created from the slave’s pale flesh, to rebuild muscle and sinew and reverse the damage he’d caused while trying to reach the damage the drugs had done. By the time he was done, he and Grimmjow both were covered in blood and the magic-user was exhausted.  
  
They carried Shiro back to his cell, naked and unconscious and trembling from the ordeal. Laying him on his cot, the slave trader had the decency enough to fold a sterile, white sheet over Shiro’s shivering form before he locked the cell and left.  
  
Shiro was only given a single night and day to rest and recover, before he was once more drugged and laying under another client.  
  
 **••• The estate : present •••**  
  
An hour went by before Shiro finally began sitting up, began trying to recover whatever shred of dignity he had left. There wasn’t much of that to hold on to anymore; just another of the many things Grimmjow and his customers had taken from him. He yanked darkly colored sheets up and pulled them over his bare waistline, before finally redirecting his much clearer -if not worn- attention toward the supposed detective, but his gaze didn’t hold and dropped off to the side as ashen brows creased with his thoughts and his words.  
  
Ichigo did his honest best to school his features as he listened, depthless eyes directed not quite at the pale lad he spoke to, but just off to the side. Even then, there was no missing the few expressions that flitted over porcelain features.  
  
The drugs had worn off, leaving Shiro first ill, then confused because he didn’t understand why Ichigo was still there and still hadn’t touched him. It didn’t make sense to him, didn’t go along with anything the pale lad had been taught through experience during his long stay. He was grateful, Ichigo knew that. Shiro had said as much, but still. The slave wouldn’t just trust him, he wouldn’t just settle for what Ichigo told him. And Ichigo couldn’t blame him.  
  
So he’d turned the conversation around, and had managed to get Shiro to speak, managed to get something more than just biting, defensive sarcasm from the young man. Perhaps it had been a cruel question to ask, but Ichigo had needed to get the man to open up, to start talking. About anything. He would never gain Shiro’s trust and cooperation if there was no communication, if there was no forming of common ground and some sort of bonding. Sharing the lad’s pain, getting to know what he’d gone through was one way to achieve that. It would give Ichigo a base to start with, something with which to form how he should proceed. He hadn’t quite anticipated the answer he got, though. It tore at Ichigo’s heart and he didn’t even know the lad, not yet.  
  
“I-I fight too much...” Shiro mumbled, his fingers delicately tracing the bottom edge of the leather collar wrapped around his pale throat. The dark leather was worn around the edges, marks scarred against it’s surface from where he’d struggled against it at first. But the marks were old and the rest of the collar merely showed the almost polished quality fine leather tends to take on when it’s handled often, oiled naturally by the touch of many, many hands.  
  
The odd client had asked about the bruising he’d sported the week prior, about how he’d gotten it and what had happened. Luckily, being less than half human, Shiro healed faster than average, so it was gone now and no longer stood out so harshly against his pale complexion. But the question hadn’t been entirely directed at just that one occasion. Receiving such injuries and marks was a regular thing for the pale slave, and that had been more what the orange haired male had been asking about; the reasoning behind them, why it was allowed.  
  
 “I don’t give up, I fight and I threaten and scream until I can’t... ‘till my medicine makes me stop.”   
  
Ichigo hid a cringe as he took mental note of the fact that Shiro didn’t call what he was given drugs, but something that was much more positive and acceptable. His training told him it was a psychological defense, just like the surely young man’s usual sarcasm. It was a way of making the situation easier to stomach. But it was a dangerous thing. If one lied to oneself often enough, he or she would eventually come to believe said lie and Ichigo was fairly sure he was witnessing the beginnings of that phenomenon with Shiro. Next would come making excuses for and identifying with the captors, in this case, the slave trader that had put the pale mixbreed through everything he hated so much.  
  
“Wh-when I finally give in...the clients always think the resistance was just parta the fun...” His voice lowered to a whisper, to a hoarse and traumatized sound. “They think I like it...they don’t really know they’re hurtin’ me, I don’t think...they-they-I can’t help it...when they- and so they think I like it when they hurt me...b’cause the medicine makes me think I like it till it’s over.”  
  
Ichigo started to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. He was repulsed and outraged about the entire idea. He knew where this was headed, despite that he’d never personally witnessed it. In the academy, he’d read about cases similar to Shiro’s, at least as far as mental stability and outcomes went. Part of him wondered why the pale slave didn’t make it known that he wasn’t enjoying the physical harm, but then another part screamed at him that Shiro couldn’t, that didn’t enjoy any of it, not really. Not the forced sex, not the touches or the heat, not what the medication did to him or what happened to him after it was all over, nor that he had to do it all over again when the customer was finally done using him. He was rendered incapable of telling clients as much by the drugs that clouded his mind and stole his reasoning, and by the time it was over and the forced state began to ware off, the damage was done and Shiro had to live with all of it.  
  
“S’ok though...” Shiro continued, his inverted eyes lost in another time, trained on the far wall, where a window was covered with dark, sultry curtains hung on expensive fixtures. “I’m startin’ ta get used ta it.”  
  
Ichigo’s heart sank a little, but a fire lit underneath of it and orange brows furrowed. “No. It’s not ok. None of this is ok, Shiro, don’t try to kid yourself into thinking it is just because you think the situation is hopeless. It wont do you any good.”  
  
The pale man sneered, showing a hint of his own fire, but didn’t lift his gaze.  
  
“You’re giving up when you talk like that.” Ichigo continued, his voice growing strong and determined. As he had during their previous meeting, he stayed back, gave the slave his space. He wanted Shiro to be as comfortable with his presence as possible, wanted to show -through action- that he could be trusted, that Shiro was safe around him and that he would never harm or even touch the young man. “You’re letting him win.”  
  
“He’s already won!” Shiro snarled, his voice the loudest Ichigo had heard it in the two meetings they’d had. The colorless slave finally dropped his bare feet to the floor and surged from where he’d been sitting on the bed. The chain snapped tight, harshly halting his forward motion before the detective had even had time to step back. But Shiro didn’t reach for the other male he shared company with, instead reaching up. He wrapped pale fingers as tightly around the collar as he could, until his fingers were pushed under it and there was so little space that he could hardly breathe. “I’m on a chain.” He hissed, “Like some animal, a pet. He owns me now. Sells me. Does whatever the hell he wants wit’ me!”  
  
Shiro shrank back again, a look of horror flashing across his pale features, like saying it out loud physically hurt because now it was real. He’d given voice to it and now it was happening and not just some horrible dream. A long, pained breath left his lungs and he dropped to sit on the bed like he no longer had enough energy to stand. His hands fell into his lap, the blanket that had previously been wrapped around his waist half dragged onto the floor from his outburst. His nakedness didn’t really bother him. He was used to it. “He already won.”  
  
“I can help-”  
  
“No ya can’t.” Shiro snarled, his distorted voice oddly flat, guarded. There was hope in him, hidden and buried deep where he could hardly feel it, but it was still there and he hated it. He hated it because he knew it would only be crushed, because his brain told him it was pointless, that that glimmer of hope would be what finally destroyed him altogether. He dared hope in a hopeless situation and it was killing him, even if his body was still alive.  
  
“Shiro-”  
  
“No!” The single word was practically screamed as Shiro bared white teeth at the detective before dropping his head to cradle it in his hands, shoulders hunched and back bowed. “No. Stop it. I don’t wanna talk ‘bout this anymore.”  
  
If the lad’s voice trembled just slightly with that last admission, Ichigo didn’t comment on it. The young man was very nearly done, broken, and they both knew it. There was no need to comment on it.   
  
“Ok.” Ichigo nodded slightly, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be.” Shiro mumbled, his hands raising from his face to card through his long hair before dropping back to his lap again.   
  
They were quiet for several long minutes, the slave obviously lost in thought as Ichigo observed, taking in everything about the colorless young man that he could. Then Shiro looked back up to match the orange haired man’s gaze and something about that surprised Ichigo. It was the same, subtle surprise he’d felt when the slave had spoken out of turn during Ichigo’s second visit to the estate, when Shiro had given the detective his name simply because the black marketeer had been speaking. There was defiance in such simple actions, even if Shiro had yet to recognize it as that, and Ichigo’s faith was renewed that Shiro would be the one to help him. It would just take time.  
  
“Ya gotta name?” The abused male finally asked, golden eyes still matching much softer brown hues.  
  
“Ichigo.”  
  
“Ichigo... And you’re a detective, hm? Not a cop.” He snorted, fingers moving upward to idly toy with the link where the chain connected to his collar. It was an unconscious motion, fidgeting. There was nothing about it to suggest he was even thinking of attempting to find a way to remove it. “I’m surprised ya made it through the front door last week. And taday.”  
  
Ichigo frowned, “Why?” He knew Grimmjow was paranoid and careful -the big man knew that at least part of what he was doing was illegal- and wouldn’t stand for another warrant or search of his estate.  
  
“Ya said Nel had told ya ta come back an’ ask for me. Means ya been hear at least three times now. Grimmjow searches all returnin’ customers.”  
  
The detective’s frown only deepened. “Yeah...Nelliel told me that too... but he didn’t search me.”  
  
A smirk found it’s way across pale features, an expression that held no amusement, but a sly knowing instead. “Who brought ya ta the hold? He have pink hair?”  
  
Ichigo nodded.  
  
“He touch ya? Even just a brush, hardly anythin’ at all?”  
  
After thinking for a few moments, again, Ichigo nodded. “I think so, here.” He reached up to brush his own shoulder, where the pink haired man had turned him toward the stairs the week prior.  
  
Shiro mimicked the nod. “Szayel’s half hollow.” The slave dropped the chain, bringing his pointer finger up to tap near the corner of his oddly, inhuman colored eyes. “Yellow, like mine but wit’out the black.” He said, “He’s the doctor ‘round here, but he can use his magic for other things. I don’t think it’s really meant for healin’ anyway, that’s just what he uses it for mostly. Real nasty stuff...” Shiro cringed, stomach turning a bit at the thought of how that powerful magic was used. “Careful what ya bring. Ya don’t want Szayel ta get ahold a ya.”  
  
“Do you know what kind of things they search for? Anything in specific?” Ichigo had to ask. If he knew what he could safely bring and what he couldn’t, his job would be much easier.  
  
“Dunno.” Shiro shrugged. “Cop things, I guess. I know Grimmjow don’t let guns in, or any form of restraints. Clients that’re inta that sort of thing have ta request pre-approved stuff.” He shrugged again. “They’re allowed ta hurt us, but nuthin’ irreversible and no killin’... Uh, small knives’re ok I think, I’ve seen a few clients leave ‘em over on the table, outta my reach so I guess Grimmjow probably tells ‘em ta make sure I don’t get ahold of ‘em.”  
  
The list of things the slave could give the detective wasn’t long, and nothing was definite yes or no, but it was a start. Ichigo was honestly a little surprised Shiro could tell him much at all, as far as what Jaegerjaquez and his magic-user looked for during their brief search. It was also helpful to know that the big slave trader employed at least one magic-wielder. It was a potentially dangerous thing to go into all this unaware of and something that Ichigo and his team couldn’t have predicted. Magic wasn’t exactly a common thing, it took just the right combination of genetics to form and even then it wasn’t guaranteed the child born with the ability would ever actually learn how to use it. Still, some part of Ichigo really wasn’t all that surprised to learn that Jaegerjaquez had managed to find a magic-user and con the man into working for him. It posed it’s own set of problems, further complications to Ichigo’s mission, and would need to be addressed during his next report with the commissioner.  
  
“You asked a question.” Ichigo stated, his voice a careful neutral tone. He wasn’t a negotiator of any kind, but he would have been lying if he had said he didn’t feel like the skill would have come in handy. He knew there was a proper way to go about all this, and he knew part of that was letting Shiro think he had more control, even if it was only an illusion. “Is it alright if I ask one now?”  
  
A sarcastic smirk tugged at one corner of pale lips. “Ya already asked a question of your own, chief. I asked what your name was, you asked what they look for durin’ searches.”  
  
“I suppose I did.” Ichigo chuckled, “So I guess it’s your turn again.”  
  
The slave nodded and tilted his head slightly as he thought for a moment, then, “Why?”  
  
The detective frowned, “Why..?”  
  
“What you’re tryin’ ta do -shut this place down- it’s impossible.” Shiro rephrased, “So why?”  
  
“Because what he’s doing is illegal and he needs to face justice.”  
  
“No, tha’s not what I asked.” Shiro quirked a brow. “I didn’t ask for the police standardized answer, I asked for your reasoning.”  
  
Ichigo’s frown deepened, a slight scowl scrunching his brow. He studied the pale slave, looking the lad in the eye. The silence stretched for a moment, before he finally answered. “Because no one else has been able to do it. Because someone has to stop him, so he can’t hurt anyone else. I’m going to make sure you’re his last victim, Shiro. I’m going to end this.”  
  
The hybrid snorted a laugh, like he didn’t believe a word Ichigo said, like he thought it was all boastful and it would never happen, could never happen. But Ichigo thought, for just a moment, that something else flashed through those inhuman eyes, something pained and vulnerable, something raw and fresh.  
  
“Good ‘nough.” The slave said quietly, hint of a smirk still on his features. It was strained at best. “Your turn.”  
  
Ichigo nodded a small motion and thought for half a second, his intelligent eyes never leaving Shiro’s figure. He still needed to know more about Shiro and all that he’d been through: it was the majority of what he’d be building his case around. When he finally brought Jaegerjaquez to court, he planed on the pale slave before him being his main witness, and his main piece of evidence.  
  
His mind was briefly drawn back toward the evidence the last warrant was handed to the station under, and what little evidence they had been able to collect during that investigation. There hadn’t been much, and nothing substantial enough to warrant arrests or a further investigation and inspection. But one little detail, overlooked by the man he now worked under, stood out in his mind.  
  
“How long have you been here?”  
  
The mixblood simply shrugged, his expression going back to guarded. “Dunno.”  
  
Ichigo kept his features schooled and even. “How old are you then?”  
  
An unhappy little frown creased pale features. “That’s two questions.”  
  
“But you didn’t answer the first.” The detective pointed out. He was as gentle about it as possible, when he realized that Shiro really didn’t seem to want to answer either. “Should I pick-” 

“I don’t know.” Shiro interrupted, his voice verging on petulant and snappy. “I dunno how long I been here. I don’t know how old I am.” He shook his head and curled his lip slightly, but those golden eyes slid away from Ichigo’s figure and landed back on the far wall, behind where Ichigo stood. “I was just turnin’ twenty when he...found me. I don’t even know what the date is, or what time a the year it is.”  
  
Ichigo’s eyes widened before he caught himself, and re-schooled his expression into something less surprised, less shocked. “H-how-”  
  
“What d’ya mean how?” Shiro snapped, defensive again, because he didn’t know how else to respond. He tugged at his collar again. “ ‘s it look like I get out much? My cage is hidden away underground. I think! I don’ even know that for sure, coz I can’t r’member when they was bringin’ me down there. And the hallways’re windowless. This-” He motioned toward the wall and Ichigo half turned to look over his shoulder, toward the only window in the room. “-is the only view I got of the outside world.” A bitter laugh followed the slave’s statement. A window that was covered by dark, thick curtains, a window that he couldn’t reach because he was chained to a bed that had been securely built into the floor to keep it from moving. A window he couldn’t see out of.  
  
Orange brows rose slightly and Ichigo watched the pale lad take a deep, even breath. He glanced back toward the window, taking a backward step toward it before turning to make his way across the room. He pulled the curtains aside as far as they would go, opening the view to a dark, night sky blocked out by light cloud cover. A slow, cool drizzle of rain pattered soundlessly against the thick glass, making the vista shimmer lightly and blurring the view of the street outside.  
  
“It’s late autumn.” Ichigo said quietly, watching the slave’s reactions as inverted eyes suddenly took on a lost look.  
  
Confusion swept through the slave, like the pieces of what he had thought was his reality just didn’t fit together. Because how could it just now be the end of fall? He’d known he’d lost track of time, but could his perception have really been that skewed? Ashen brows rose, scrunched together in the middle as Shiro’s eyes slowly tracked what little of outside was visible to him. His chest heaved in a shuddering breath and the slightest shake of his head told Ichigo that the poor lad was still trying to catch up to what he was seeing, to what his mind was trying to tell him.  
  
“Wh-what..? But...” Shiro shook his head again, the motion so slow it was barely visible at all. His voice was hoarse, quiet, lost in another time like he was looking more at something in the past than he was at what was right in front of him. “It-it was the middle...of autumn... I r’member the rain...”  
  
“Shiro... I found a picture that was taken as evidence during a prior investigation...you’re in it... It was taken a little over a year ago now...”  
  
The pale hybrid was quiet for a long minute, unmoving where he sat upon the bed, his hands in his lap and his eyes trained unseeingly out the window. “A year...” He finally breathed. The next sound to escape him was choked, wordless. It was something of a twisted, dark chuckle, sardonic and dry. He dropped his head into his hands, fingers curling into his long hair so tightly that the bone of his knuckles pressed sharply against the skin that covered them. His black nails cut crescents into his palms, but he didn’t notice the sharp and distant pain. “A-a year...” He repeated, trying to wrap his mind around it.  
  
Jaw tightening, Ichigo swallowed as he witnessed the slave’s display of utter loss. He started to draw the curtains closed again, but he was halted as Shiro jolted, head snapping up and arm extending.  
  
“No! Leave it open...”  
  
Ichigo nodded and retied the heavy material back, so that it would stay in place, and once more turned toward the bed. He made his way closer to where the lad sat, but he faltered as he neared arm’s length. Everything in Ichigo, for all the world, wanted to comfort the colorless young man, but he didn’t know how. Traditional methods weren’t exactly an option. The victim of brutal physical and mental abuse, rape, and things Ichigo couldn’t even begin to understand yet, the detective knew that a simple touch -a hand on the shoulder, an embrace or anything of the sort- would likely be the worst thing he could do.  
  
So when Shiro sank back into himself, when he tucked his head down and hid his pale, tear streaked features in his hands and drew his knees up, Ichigo lowered himself to sit on the floor. He stayed close, close enough that Shiro could have reached out to him, could have moved from the bed and easily come to him, but still left enough space between them that the poor lad wouldn’t need to feel on edge or threatened in anyway.  
  
And that’s how they stayed for a very long time. Long enough that Ichigo was beginning to wonder if he should leave, if it would be better to let Shiro have his privacy. But if he left, Jaegerjaquez and his magic-using doctor would come back and drag Shiro back to his cell and that was the very last thing either of them needed or wanted. So Ichigo stayed, and sat quietly. He’d set up appointments with Jaegerjaquez’s secretary, but he paid by hour, so he could technically stay and keep Shiro from his cage for the full night. Doing so wouldn’t seem very realistic, and could jeopardize his mission, but another hour or so couldn’t hurt.  
  
Finally, the heavy silence was broken.  
  
“Do ya really think ya can take Grimmjow down?” The slave’s lilting voice held an almost grave, dry quality, like he wasn’t really ready to believe it. Some part of him still wanted to hope it was true though, still clung to the possibility that maybe this nightmare really did have an end and he would get to wake up soon.  
  
“I do, yes.” Ichigo told him, his brown eyes glittering with a hard layer of determination and fortification that would not be crumbled. He hadn’t really voiced it aloud, not yet, but to himself, he promised that he would rescue this man. He would free Shiro, and he would make sure no one else would ever have to suffer the same fate. “But I need help.”  
  
Shiro nodded slowly, back straightening a bit, but he didn’t pull his knees away from his chest, or unwrap his arms from around his lean, bare legs. His gaze trailed away from Ichigo and toward the window he hadn’t gotten to see out of for a very long time. A year...it seemed like it had been so much longer, and yet it seemed almost impossible to believe that he’d really survived a year in this place, in this hell, after everything they’d done to him. Only a year...a full year... “Ok. I dunno what help I can be, but ok.”  
  
It was the answer Ichigo had been hoping and pushing for, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Shiro...before you agree...you have to know that if this goes south, if Jaegerjaquez figures out what we’re doing, it’s very likely I wont be able to protect you. I can’t guarantee your safety in this...”  
  
The mixbreed snorted a laugh, his strange, inverted eyes coasting back toward Ichigo. There was a flat look to them, unsettling and...drowned. A smirk split pale lips, but it was a twisted and fickle thing, a harsh baring of teeth. “What’s he gonna do? Punish me?” Shiro laughed, the sound manic and edging on deranged. It was dark sound, despite the distorted, watery chime to his voice. “Beat me? Rape me? He can’t take anythin’ from me that he hasn’t already taken.”  
  
“He can take your life.”  
  
And Shiro laughed again. “Maybe that would be mercy.”


	6. Chapter 6

**••• The estate : present •••**  
  
Grimmjow paced a short path from one side of his office to the other, his steps slow and even, purposeful yet distracted. Upon the large screen mounted in his office, the video feed scrolled soundlessly through some of the hallway cameras. There was little to witness on them, though. It hardly mattered in any case. The big man was deep in thought and it showed, a slight scowl etched upon his handsome features and his sever, blue brows furrowed ever so slightly.  
  
Lounging comfortably upon the plush couch that faced the flat screen, Szayel watched his business partner stalk the length of the room, back and forth, back and forth. He vaguely wondered how long it would take until Grimmjow ran out of steam to do so, it wasn’t like the man really got all that much rest during his days, seeing as he ran multiple businesses in multiple locations and headed a rather large division of the black market. But then it occurred to Szayel that Grimmjow may as well have been immune to tiring. Humans were remarkable creatures like that.  
  
“Sit down.” The half-hollow bid, patting the cushion next to himself. “You’re wearing me out just watching.”  
  
Grimmjow snorted a sound of dry amusement but didn’t bother looking at the slim male in his company. He continued his restless motions, never really glancing up at the screen he’d turned on. “Something’s not right, Szayel. I know he’s up to something.”  
  
“You had him checked out, didn’t you?” The pink haired doctor asked, propping his elbow up on the arm of the couch and settling his chin in it as he made himself comfortable. His yellow eyes continued to follow the big human’s form. Grimmjow was quite fun to watch, after all, especially for a human. Such a delightful specimen, with all those fluid motions and ease of movement. He didn’t have the underlying clumsiness most full-blooded humans had.  
  
Blue eyes cornered to send a telling glare. “Of course I did.”  
  
“And?” Szayel prompted.  
  
“And nothing.” Grimmjow curled his lip, deep voice rough and growling. “Car’s registered under his name. Address from the next city over. The house checks out, lots of half packed boxes but still looks lived in for the most part.” The big man reached up to run his fingers through his blue hair and shrugged. “Business man, he’s got money. No family in the immediate area.”  
  
“Then what are you so worried about?” Szayel sighed a small sound. He knew of his partner’s paranoia, and it was warranted, of course, but he still felt Grimmjow to be jumping in to all this a little prematurely. “You know very well that there is no one to look for your dear little Shiro. He’s three quarter hollow. We both know his mother has been dead since he was born and he likely has no idea who is father is, if the beast even still lives. You know hollow fathers have no desire to stick around for child rearing, so there is nothing to fear there even if he does live. No one knows the pretty little creature even exists, let alone is missing.”  
  
“Yes, but who says this Kurosaki guy is looking for Shiro in specific? Maybe he’s looking for something more than someone.” Grimmjow countered. “And why isn’t he coming back torn up? You know as well as I do that the dosage we’ve been giving Shiro only lasts about an hour, and Kurosaki’s spending more than an hour with him each visit. Yet neither show signs of struggle. The damn thing still fights the other clients so much. Hell, he even still fights me half the time. Why isn’t he taking the opportunity to tear into someone’s hide while he has the chance?”  
  
Szayel shook his head slightly. “I couldn’t say.” He admitted, “but perhaps you should be asking your beloved little pet?”  
  
Grimmjow ignored the endearment attached to the pale slave. He’d long grown used to Szayel’s teasing about how much he seemed to favor the mixbreed. Even he would have admitted that should any of his other slaves ever dared to act like the fiery, pale young man, Grimmjow would have killed them himself and been done with it. But something about Shiro was such a rich challenge. The lad just wasn’t breaking like all the others. It was still happening, of course, but it was a much slower process and as much as it infuriated Grimmjow, he also loved it.  
  
“Fine.” The slave trader stopped his pacing and turned toward the closed door of his office. “Get off your ass, you’re going to help me decide if he’s lying.”  
  
Yellow eyes rolled behind clean glass, but Szayel pushed himself up and stood to his full, elegant height. “Do I look like a lie detector to you?”  
  
“You look like whatever the hell I want you to be.” Grimmjow snapped back, but the heat  in his voice was more of a playful tone than an angered one. This little back and forth game of theirs had been going on since Grimmjow had first employed the halfblood magic-user.  
  
“Fair enough.” Szayel chuckled a musical sound as they left the office.  
  
The trek to the slave hold was a quick one, despite the maze of hallways and stairs they had to navigate. Both men had made that exact trip, through that exact path, countless times. When Grimmjow stormed through the hold door, letting the heavy portal slam against the doorjamb and very nearly bounce back shut in Szayel’s face, every slave in the space turned wide eyes in their direction before all but one obediently and silently slipped into the back of their cells.  
  
The slaves had no way of telling time, nothing to mark the passing of hours, of days or weeks and seasons and years, so it was impossible for Shiro to tell whether it was time for his weekly scheduled appointment or if this visit was for some other reason, but he did know one thing. Grimmjow was coming for him. The big man never made such a show of his anger when dealing with any of the others. The pale lad was unsurprised when the blue haired human yanked open his cell door to block the doorway with his own frame.  
  
Gold on black eyes narrowed, but Shiro had quit lashing out without prompt. He stayed tucked in the back corner of his cell, seated on his cot like he had been when the slave trader had entered the hold.  
  
When it was clear that the slave, unsurprisingly, wasn’t going to make a move for the door, Grimmjow waded into the cage. He caught the pale mixblood with ease that spoke of a trained response: Shiro was used to being caught by this man, so he really didn’t fight against it any more, expecting it to happen. Grimmjow let his brows furrow and his expression speak of outrage. His blue eyes were ablaze, glowing hotly in the shadowed corner of the slave’s cage.  
  
Shiro did finally begin to react more expressly when big hands grabbed hold of him, but didn’t turn him around. The slave trader didn’t bother unbuckling his belt or removing Shiro’s own skimpy clothing, but instead wound a single hand around his pale throat and shoved him backward. Not releasing his hold, he pushed Shiro against the solid concrete of the back wall and pale fingers found his wrist as the slave’s eyes widened, glaring into heated blue, trying to figure out what was going on.  
  
Grimmjow simply pushed harder, wrapping his other hand around the slave’s throat as he bared his teeth down at the mixbreed. Pale fingers tightened around his wrist, black nails beginning to bite tanned flesh as Shiro started to struggle. Confusion multiplied ten fold in those inverted eyes as the slave struggled to breathe under the heavy pressure slowly closing off his airway. It was a completely unwarranted attack, he’d done nothing wrong, not that he could think of. He gasped and panted, trying to push Grimmjow away, trying to loosen the overwhelming pressure on his trachea. Choked sounds of desperation escaped his bruising throat, hot tears blurring his vision of their own accord.  
  
Finally, the big human spoke, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I want to know everything.” He warned, “What are you and Mr. Kurosaki up to?”  
  
Shiro gasped in harshly, features starting to take on colors they didn’t normally hold. His wide, panicked eyes stared up at bigger man. “Wh-what?” He finally forced out, confused and scared and unable to breathe. His voice was airy, choked and without any real sound.  
  
Grimmjow let up just slightly, drawing the smaller lad back enough to slam him up against the wall again. He put so much force into it, that he could feel the bones of Shiro’s ribcage rattle against the solid concrete. “Tell me!” He snarled. “You’re never so friendly with clients, especially after your medicine wears off...”  
  
Eyes squeezed shut and expression twisted with pain, Shiro clutched at the bigger man desperately. But he wasn’t really trying to get the slave trader to release him, he knew he could never over power Grimmjow. His labored breaths wheezed through his still restrained trachea, chest heaving as he tried not to give in to his fear and panic.   
  
“I-I like ‘im!” He finally answered, knowing what Grimmjow was talking about. If the black marketeer found out what was going on, both the detective and Shiro would be dead. The investigation would fail, and Grimmjow would go free and continue running his business and ruining peoples lives.   
  
“You like him.” Grimmjow quirked a brow down at the slave, finding it hard to believe.  
  
From across the isle between the cells, wheat grey eyes widened slightly as Nelliel watched. She too knew what the big slave trader spoke of, and she also knew Shiro was too stubborn and strong-willed to ever give the detective up.  
  
A third hand settled lightly against Shiro’s arm, cold fingers against the inside of his wrist and Shiro jolted under the unexpected touch. He looked over with wide eyes to find that Szayel stood at his side, those not quite human eyes searching his every reaction and his every word. Shiro knew that if the doctor caught him lying, he wouldn’t likely survive the night. Or worse. He would survive and they would kill Ichigo when next the detective showed up, leaving Shiro alone to continue living through his hell, with no hope of an end.  
  
“He-he’s nice ta me...” Shiro pleaded as he looked up desperately into brilliant, livid blue again. It wasn’t a lie, not really... “He doesn’t...he doesn’t hurt me like the others do...He’s...gentle and-and...p-please...” He gasped out in a hoarse voice, trying desperately and to no avail to pry the fingers from around his throat.  
  
Blue eyes finally panned away from the slave and found Szayel. The doctor pulled his hand away from Shiro and shrugged a bit. “Well, his heart rate is elevated, but you’ve also got him terrified, so that’s to be expected.” Szayel shook his head. “This really is not my forte, Grimmjow.”  
  
“Than an educated guess.” The big man implored, not relinquishing his choking, bruising hold of the slave.  
  
In front of him, Shiro bared clenched teeth, eyes watering and head tilted back as far as the wall would allow for. His toes just barely touched the floor and the only sound he made was a pitiful, wheezing cough that rattled in his empty lungs.  
  
Szayel sighed, using delicate fingers to pull his glasses from their perch and begin cleaning the already spotless lenses. If he was worried in the least for the slave’s safety and health, it didn’t show. “I would say he’s probably being honest.”  
  
Strong fingers finally unlocked and Shiro barely stayed on his feet as he pulled in desperate lungfuls of air.  
  
“What time is it, Szayel?” The slave trader asked, watching the slave double over with an almost disgusted expression.  
  
“About that time.” Szayel confirmed, reaching into his jacket to pull forth a syringe. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and Shiro’s gaze finally snapped back up to the two men hovering over him.  
  
He shrank back, eyes glancing at the needle. Of course he knew what was in it, this was all very routine by now, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped hating it. “N-no...” He breathed, one hand straying up to wrap tenderly over the discolored flesh at his throat.  
  
Grimmjow barked a laugh. “Come on, would you really behave if I didn’t give you your medicine?”  
  
To Grimmjow’s surprise, the slave actually hesitated, like he was going to say yes, like he was going to agree to laying under a client un-drugged. Maybe it was because Shiro’s hesitation frightened him, rocked the slave more than nearly passing out for lack of oxygen, but the pale young man almost angrily pushed aside his moment of pause and rage twisted his features.  
  
Grimmjow snagged hold of his arm as the slave swung. He laughed a cruel sound and threw Shiro to the ground, descending over the smaller male. Using his larger weight, Grimmjow straddled the slave and pinned him to the ground, wrapping his hands back around Shiro’s throat to keep him from struggling so much as Szayel caught hold of one arm and swiftly pushed the needle through colorless flesh.  
  
Within moments, Shiro’s struggles ceased as the first effect of the drugs now coursing through his veins took hold. The room spinning, he didn’t try climbing to his feet, even as Grimmjow’s weight lifted off him and nothing pinned him down. He was pulled to his feet, sagging against his tormentors, and led from the hold.  
  
As had become normal, he really didn’t remember the walk to his room. He’d made the journey countless times, but the drugs melded together his memories of it, making it a grey, cloudy thing. It didn’t much matter anyway.  
  
He was dropped onto the bed and his collar was wrapped around his throat, pressing uncomfortably upon the fresh bruising and damage there. Even drowsy and half aware, he winced, brows scrunching and teeth bared, but he didn’t struggle as it was pulled tight and locked into place. He completely missed as Szayel and Grimmjow left the room, fighting the blackening effect of the drugs. The sound of his door opening and closing again vaguely registered upon his senses and pale brows furrowed slightly, a low grumbling reaching his throat through even, slightly strained breaths.  
  
Ichigo stepped into the room, unsurprised to find the pale slave chained to the bed. He locked the door behind himself, despite knowing that Grimmjow could surely get in at any time if he wanted to, and turned back toward the interior. He was surprised, however, to find Shiro half passed out on the bed and not up and ready to go like previous encounters.  
  
“Shiro?” He asked quietly, edging closer to the bed and the nearly motionless figure laying upon it. He didn’t get a response and he rounded the bed to be nearer, looking down into slightly flushed, slack features. Against his better judgement, he gently settled a hand against the pale slave’s shoulder, giving the lightest of shakes as concern flooded his mind.  
  
Shiro jolted away from him, clouded eyes snapping open impossibly wide, like he hadn’t expected to be touched, hadn’t known someone stood so closely.   
  
“Don’t touch me.” He hissed, dropping off the opposite side of the bed. His feet hit the floor and he sagged, nearly sinking to the ground. But the sedatives didn’t last that long, only a few minutes. They lasted just long enough to make dragging him down the hall and chaining him up easy and their groggy affects were beginning to wear off already. “Ichigo?”  
  
Ichigo frowned as he nodded, rounding the bed again to re-approach the lad, his motions cautious and slow. The young slave’s voice seemed off, hoarse. “It’s me, Shiro, are you ok?”  
  
The lad nodded an almost tired motion and began carefully climbing back onto the bed, where he sat cross-legged and bowed forward, waiting out the sedatives working through his system. He reached up to gingerly tug the collar as far forward as he could, so that it didn’t settle so harshly on the brilliant blues and purples beginning to blossom across the unpainted canvas his pale skin made.  
  
The motion pulled Ichigo’s attention to the dark, angry looking marks. It was beyond obvious to him that they were fresh and he stepped closer, brows arching in concern. “What happened??” He stooped to get closer to Shiro’s level, reaching out to the lad, but he paused before his hands made contact. “I’m going to touch you, ok? I just want to take a look.”  
  
Ashen brows furrowed as Shiro leaned back and away slightly, wary of contact while his mind was clear enough to tell him he should be. He shook his head, sinking away like fear and previous experience demanded of him.  
  
“I wont hurt you, Shiro...” Ichigo told him, his voice quiet but stern, serious and honest. “and I’ll stop if you tell me to, ok? If you’re uncomfortable, you just have to tell me...”  
  
Shiro hesitated, his golden eyes panning upward to meet Ichigo’s gaze. The detective had never harmed him in their meetings and even though there had only been a few, they had each been several hours in length. Shiro’s mental stability may have been a fragile thing, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the orange haired man was being careful with him on purpose all the times they’d interacted, he knew what the detective was trying to accomplish. And it was working.  
  
After a moment of hesitation, Shiro nodded slightly and lowered his hands away from the collar to make room for Ichigo to take a look. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath as warm, gentle fingers came into contact with heated, bruised skin.  
  
Touch was a simple thing for most people, but to someone that had gone through what Shiro had, it was a traumatizing and frightening ordeal. The slightest hint of a smile touched the very corners of Ichigo’s lips, realizing that such a simple thing was a huge step in gaining the abused male’s trust. His elation didn’t last long though, as he inspected the harsh marks. Clear prints showed where thumbs had gripped and fingers had squeezed. Ichigo could very nearly make out entire hand prints, where big hands had wound around the slave’s throat. But there wasn’t a collar print, despite that half of the bruising was located where the collar naturally sat.  
  
“Jesus...” Ichigo muttered, frowning as he gently ran the pad of his finger across a particularly dark area, feeling how the skin was swollen and welted from the pressure it had endured. Under the touch, Shiro cringed and grit his teeth. “How did... why didn’t they at least heal this?”  
  
Ichigo couldn’t wrap his mind around someone being able to do such a thing to another living being. It had clearly been intentional and cruel and Shiro had surely struggled under such a thing. There would have been no mistaking his pain for enjoyment, not like he had told Ichigo had happened before. This was different, this was meant to hurt. But even still, Ichigo had been under the impression that most damage was healed by Jaegerjaquez’s doctor and this surely would have warranted at least a check up...  
  
“Who d’ya think did it?” Shiro half snapped, that defensive aggression and sarcasm showing through. Once upon a time, he would have ripped apart the person responsible for such a thing. Not any more though. Especially not Grimmjow. He couldn’t win against Grimmjow.  
  
He huffed a breath and a slight shudder worked down his spine. Several minutes had gone by while Ichigo inspected the newly acquired bruising and the forced medication was still working it’s way through him. Reaching up, he tried to tug Ichigo’s hands away from him as a telling heat began to sweep through his body.   
  
Ichigo frowned, taking note of the way the lad’s breathing seemed to change. The look in his golden eyes no longer seemed worn, clear of the sedatives, but they were dark and glassy. But when Shiro didn’t say anything, he continued his exam.   
  
“Why would he do this?” He had to know. He had to be sure of the reason, even though part of him feared the answer. He couldn’t be sure what information and evidence would come in handy later and what wouldn’t and if he and Shiro were to be the main witnesses against the black marketeer, than he had to know.  
  
“Was askin’ ‘bout you.” Shiro mumbled. He fought the urge to lean into the light, careful brushes of the fingers at his neck. It was a harder feat than he would have thought, had he not known through experience just how effective the drugs were, and the tiniest of whines crept up his exposed throat.  
  
The small sound was lost on Ichigo, as brown eyes widened at the slave’s words.  
  
“Don’t worry...” Shiro told him, lilting voice dropping an octave, so that it was just barely huskier than normal. Still he fought to ignore the aphrodisiac-like second affect of his medication. “I didn’t tell him anythin’...he just thinks ya treat me more gently than the others.”  
  
Ichigo nodded, relieved that Shiro seemed to have come up with a sufficiently believable excuse. Still, he’d have to be careful and alert since Jaegerjaquez was growing suspicious. There was little telling what the big man would do to either one of them, if he grew too paranoid or actually did figure it out.  
  
“Does it hurt?” He asked, gingerly pressing at the very edges of quickly darkening bruises. “To breathe, I mean?”  
  
The lad winced as he swallowed, slow to answer. “Don’t feel good...”  
  
The orange haired man nodded again, not surprised. “But you can breathe alright, yes? It’s just sore?”  
  
Shiro nodded, but it was a distracted answer and when he finally spoke, his distorted voice was off. “I-Ichigo...”  
  
The fingers that had reached up to grasp at the edges of his sleeves tightened. The detective paused, brows arching as he looked away from the angry marks to take in the slave’s expression. “Am I hurting you?”  
  
“No...” Shiro half panted, voice quiet. He’d gone through this enough to know what was coming and know that as much as he wanted to hide from it, as much as he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t. “but...”   
  
The slave’s heavy lidded gaze averted as pale lips parted to emit light, panting breaths. The nearly naked lad squirmed where he sat, hands dropping again now that he had Ichigo’s attention to cross in his lap in a shielding way. It suddenly occurred to Ichigo how hot the smooth skin below his hands was growing. “Oh...”  
  
He’d hit his time limit. With an almost pained expression, Ichigo gently brushed aside long, white hair as he stood. Shiro frowned but leaned into the touch anyway. Backing away, the detective glanced down at his watch, before leaving the bedside altogether, an hour’s wait ahead of him.  
  
 **••• 15th Precinct, West of the city : three days ago (two days after the second meeting) •••**  
  
Ichigo rubbed at his temples, hand spread wide across his forehead as he looked down at the paper sitting upon the desk in front of him. He shrugged, getting annoyed, frustrated and tired. “It’s the same. Different decorations, flowers and stuff, but the layout’s the same.”  
  
He knew all this was important, really, he did. But it was still tedious and he needed sleep. And a decent meal. And thinking about the slave he was getting intel from really wasn’t helping either. His nerves were beginning to fray. He’d known what he was getting into, and he’d known whomever ended helping him from the inside would be sympathetic, but that was just it. Shiro wasn’t asking for the sympathy, Shiro wasn’t really even asking to be rescued or let out or freed or anything that he’d expected. Since the young man had found out how long he’d been there, since that crack in his worn, tarnished armour had appeared, he hadn’t really asked anything. He told Ichigo what he could, answered all of Ichigo’s questions; about the doctor, about the searches, everything he knew about Jaegerjaquez’s business and the other customers, other slaves. He did it all willingly, and didn’t ask for anything in return.  
  
And that was getting to Ichigo. It was unexpected, and it wasn’t quite right.  
  
“I don’t think he’s really done any new construction, sir.” Ichigo shook his head slightly, pulling himself back to the topic at hand. He sat in a room full of people: his team plus one. “He takes me through the same path, the same hallway every time.” He pulled the imagine his boss had laid out closer and tapped to the far side of the rotunda. “Up the stairs and halfway down the hall. To get to the slave hold, you go clear to the end and back down again.”  
  
Across from him, sitting with folded arms and an unreadable expression, the commissioner nodded a slow motion, mulling things over. Then he spoke in a mostly controlled voice, though Ichigo knew he was still on the fence about wanting to pull the detective out and scrap the mission. It wasn’t like the man had been subtle thus far, not when it was just he and Ichigo anyway. He hadn’t really been all that sure about giving Ichigo the case in the first place. “We’ve seen construction crews there in this past year...”  
  
“Maybe a different part of the estate?” Ichigo shrugged as he leaned back in his chair. He wiped at his eyes a bit, before dropping his arm to fold across his chest with the other. “I’ll ask Shiro about it, but I doubt there’s much he can tell us about it. He says the clients talk, and the staff. He hears things sometimes, more than he’s supposed to, I guess. I’ll ask him.”  
  
The commissioner nodded. Maybe the construction work didn’t even matter, but they needed to be prepared for anything. That included any new or altered areas in the estate. “What about cameras?”  
  
Ichigo looked over the black and white photos of the interior that they had. They’d been taken in the investigation the year prior. It still burned him up that all the evidence they’d needed had been laying, drugged out on a cot, in the room with them. He wanted to rage at in the injustice of it all. Shiro had been all they would have needed to make an arrest right then and there, the rest of the case would have come with the deeper investigation that the arrest of Jaegerjaquez would have brought them. But they hadn’t the strength in their flimsy warrant to take Shiro into custody all those months ago, because Jaegerjaquez had been able to show he had an in home doctor taking care of the ‘sick slave’.   
  
He tapped at the photos, pointed out all the cameras and surveillance equipment he’d seen. Some of them had been there a year ago, some of them were newer. “He keeps watch over the halls, the hold and the main entrance.”  
  
“What about the rooms?” A team member asked, cutting Ichigo off. Ichigo had already heard the answer to this question, but apparently not the rest of his team had.  
  
The commissioner answered with a shake of his head. “The rooms are clean. His escort business is technically legal, just not how he gets his slaves, so the rooms get checked regularly. Video or audio in the rentable rooms would be a huge violation of privacy and it would shut him down and probably expose his illegal business as well.”  
  
“Anyway,” Ichigo continued, “his secretary, she’s got to be wired directly to him. The rest of the cameras look pretty typical. They feed to a monitor somewhere, an office probably. I haven’t seen it. But she so much as says a word, and he hears it, even when I know he’s somewhere else in the building. An ear piece, maybe, it’s well hidden, but they have a direct feed somehow.”  
  
“When we infiltrate,” The newest addition to the team of experts and officials helping Ichigo out on this case, spoke up. She instantly had everyone’s attention. “We’ll have scramblers with us. They’ll interrupt the signal, so the moment we turn them on, the feed will drop.”  
  
“That’ll alert Jaegerjaquez.”  
  
“Yeah, he’ll likely know something’s wrong, but he wont know we’re storming his estate.” She quipped back, a playful little smirk on her pretty face. Yellow gold eyes flashed over toward Ichigo for a split second.  
  
The detective nodded, agreeing with her, but he had more to say. “I’m not so sure it’s Jaegerjaquez we really need to worry about.”  
  
That drew everyone’s attention rather sharply.  
  
“I’m not discounting him, obviously he’s not going to make this easy on us,” Ichigo continued, still leaning back in his chair. “but, according to our lead witness, he’s got a hybrid that can use magic working for him.”  
  
“Wait a second,” Someone from the team leaned forward against the table, looking over at Ichigo. “What kinda magic are we talking?”   
  
“And how strong?” Someone else asked, “I mean, it’s not like this is a real common thing...” The man looked down the table, toward Ichigo’s left as he gestured, “Yoruichi can’t, right? How did Jaegerjaquez even find a magic-user?”  
  
Again, Ichigo shrugged a vague motion and tossed his hands up in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know just how strong, or exactly what class. I know he’s good though. I met him, he did a body search without me even knowing it. I didn’t even know he was casting and he was standing right next to me. Shiro says he’s the doctor, but he doesn’t think his magic’s really meant for healing. He says it’s very...uh...invasive and violent.”  
  
“This Shiro kid, he’s a hybrid too?” The commissioner asked, his gaze panning away from Ichigo and toward Yoruichi for a moment. He knew she wouldn’t take offense, she was well respected in her field, but the conformation might come in handy later. As might having the halfblood woman on their team. Ichigo nodded and the commissioner continued. “But he can’t practice?”  
  
“No, sir. He says he’s never been able to.”  
  
“But he thinks the doctor will be trouble?”  
  
Ichigo gave a half, one sided shrug and a nod. “He didn’t outright say that, but he told me, quote, ‘You don’t want Szayel to get ahold of you.’. He was very adamant about it.” Ichigo paused for a moment, features contorting slightly. “He’s seen the guy’s magic first hand...and it scares him, even when it’s for the purpose of healing.”  
  
“What else can you tell us about him?”  
  
Ichigo thought for a moment, about the first time he’d seen the doctor in the rotunda area. “Doesn’t look like a doctor. Doesn’t really look like he’s got any hollow heritage, to be honest, aside from his eye color. Tall, Jaegerjaquez’s height probably, but a lot thinner. Bright pink hair, pretty face, glasses. I got the impression that he’s very intelligent and a little on the eccentric side.”  
  
“The brains behind Jaegerjaquez’s operation, perhaps?” Yoruichi’s husky, yet feminine voice drifted through the room.  
  
The undercover detective shook his head, “No. A partner, but he definitely works under Jaegerjaquez.” And then what the woman said truly sank in and Ichigo frowned, brown eyes snapping up to look first at the commissioner, than over at the woman. “You think there’s someone else? Someone he’s working for?”  
  
They didn’t have evidence to support that, not as far as Ichigo knew. He’d heard it talked about, random theories, everyone talked and threw out ideas. But they’d never found anything to actually suggest that the blue haired criminal worked below anyone. They knew Jaegerjaquez was high on the chain, he headed his own branch of the black market and he certainly had enough aggression and ruthlessness to do it alone, it’d never seriously occurred to Ichigo that he might have help in the form of a boss, especially after dealing with the man in person. He just wasn’t the type to work under someone.  
  
“We don’t know for sure.” Yoruichi admitted. “But it’s possible. We’d like to find out, and that’s why my department has agreed to let me work with you on this case.”  
  
Ichigo had already learned, when he first met the woman in the commissioner’s office, that Yoruichi worked higher up than his boss. She wasn’t taking over the case, but rather becoming the co-captain. Her and the commissioner would be working together, coupled with Ichigo and the team he had backing his every move. It was also beneficial that she was from out of state, meaning she could show up on the street and ask around without being quite so suspicious. Her mixed heritage made it easier for her to blend in with the rougher crowd on the streets, since the stereotype was that the hollow race was more inclined toward that walk of life.  
  
Yoruichi turned toward the commissioner as she pulled out her company issued phone from the pocket of tight pants, “Any idea who this Szayel character is?” She used a single finger to scroll across the touch screen. It was high tech stuff, something that was still new in the field. “I’m not finding a name in either registered magic-users or the police database...nor anyone with pink hair.”  
  
The commissioner thought for a moment. “No, I can’t say I have any idea who he is.”  
  
“I’ll ask around on the street and see if I can dig up anything, then.” Yoruichi flashed a bright smile. “Locals talk pretty freely with the right motivation.”  
  
 **••• The Shallows : more than a year ago •••**  
  
The mid-autumn air was cool, but not cold. Rain created a misty haze that drifted through the mostly barren streets and deserted alleyways like a low, wet fog. The air was thick, smelling of old debris and car fumes. The late hour was enough to deter most decent and hard working citizens from being out and about, but with it, others crawled from their homes. Some of them were monsters, some of them were the shadows and nightmares people spoke of. Not all of them were bad people, though, not really. Some were just young.  
  
Music poured through the streets, curling around old brick buildings and floating through the thick air. The building it came from had one floor and a basement, but most of the patrons didn’t know about the lower level. It was reserved for the owner and his more personal business, the things he kept private. The scene was typical, a long line snaking around the side of the building as neon lights flashed and pulsed in time with the music. The big man at the door, as pale as the moon hidden by the clouds above, was busy checking IDs and tickets.  
  
He scanned the little plastic cards with glowing, yellow eyes, checking dates before pulling out a black sharpie and marking the owners. He’d hand the ID back, wave the patron in, and go to the next person at the door. Occasionally VIPs would show up, cut through the line, flash a special ID and walk right in. The crowd usually made some noise of protest but it got them no where and nothing could be done, so they quieted down quickly enough so that things could proceed as quickly as possible.  
  
Shiro flashed his best grin up at the much larger, full-blooded hollow staring down at him. His pallor matched the big man’s, despite that he was full grown and not nearly the same size or weight. He had all the downsides of being human; size, limited senses, magic-less. And all the downsides of his hollow heritage as well; the inhuman appearance that meant he couldn’t just blend in. He was caught right between the two species, didn’t fit in with either, and wasn’t really accepted by human or hollow either.  
  
He sighed, grin dropped as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ya gonna lemme in or what?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What?? What d’ya mean ‘no’?” Shiro questioned, doing nothing to hide his displeasure. Let everyone hear him. “Ya turnin’ this inta a race issue? C’mon, does it really matter that I got mixed parentage? S’not my fault.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t.” The massive guard arched a brow, expressionless as he stared down at the part-hollow boy. “What does matter is that you’re not old enough.”  
  
Shiro hid a wince. He’d been hoping throwing a fit about discrimination would work...  
  
What Shiro didn’t realize is that his mixed heritage had indeed caught attention, just not who’s he’d been hoping for. Standing not all that far away, across the street, blue eyes drank in pale skin and lithe muscle as the black market trafficker sighted his next target. Taking a quick glance down either side of the street, Grimmjow trotted into motion, crossing the road and jogging right up to the odd looking lad’s side.  
  
“There you are, kid. I didn’t think the line would move this fast.” He wrapped an arm around lithe shoulders, feeling the dampness of the lad’s shirt from the misty rain. Grimmjow grinned up at the guard, a man that worked for a particular associate of his, and flashed the VIP badge that hung around his neck from an electric blue cord. “It’s alright, he’s with me.”  
  
Shiro stiffened, head swiveling to look up at taller male. He was gifted with a handsome smirk on full lips and angular, picturesque features. Chaotic, wild blue hair seemed to both stick out at every possible angle and yet look perfect all the same and those sharp eyes were almost too blue to be real. He had no idea who the man was, but he quickly pushed a smile across his face and played along.  
  
In front of them, the doorman spoke in a distorted, rumbling tone. “He’s not old enough.”  
  
“Sure he is!” The nameless, blue haired human laughed, glancing down at Shiro with a well timed wink. “Just turned twenty one today. He’ll be getting his new license tomorrow as soon as his hangover wears off, right?”  
  
“Uh, yeah.” Shiro nodded as he turned his liquid golden gaze back to the big hollow, a slow smirk stretching his pale lips. “We’re celebratin’.”  
  
“Come on, you can count can’t you?” The blue haired man asked the big doorman, chuckling an amused sound as he referred to the date written on Shiro’s license. It was wrong, of course. The guard could count just fine, the number on it just wasn’t quite high enough, a year off. “You’re holding up the line,” Grimmjow continued with an easy grin, starting to pull Shiro forward and toward the door. He snatched the license from the guard’s pale hands, handing it back over to it’s owner.  
  
The doorman let them go, watching as they disappeared through the club’s doors before turning back to continue his job.  
  
Once inside, the blue haired man guided his young friend over toward the bar, pretending like he didn’t notice how those tantalizing golden eyes first panned around the large area, then upward to look at him again.  
  
“Hey, thanks fer that.” Shiro smirked, allowing himself to guided to a barstool.  
  
“No problem, kid.” Grimmjow took a seat beside him, grinning over at the young man. Brilliant blue eyes took a quick but thorough perusal of the hybrid’s frame, already deciding upon how this night would be playing out. The boy was too exotically pretty for his own good. “So what’s your name?”  
  
“Shirosaki.” The lad watched as the older male ordered a couple of drinks. He had to admit, the guy was good looking, and that grin of his was both chilling and charming.  
  
“Grimmjow.” The man introduced himself as he slid over something dark and frothy. He took a drink from his own glass, the liquid inside matching the one he’d given to the underaged lad. “Your parents know you’re here?”  
 Shiro hesitated for the slightest of moments, “Yeah, course they do.”  
  
Grimmjow grunted a laugh and nodded, looking down at his drink. “You’re a terrible lier.” He finally commented, taking another sip. His blue eyes cornered pointedly as he sloshed the contents of his drink slightly and motioned toward Shiro’s drink. He smiled a sly expression as the lad sniffed the contents before taking a sip.  
  
“Can’t blame me for tryin’.” Shiro lilted over the loud music, taking a second sip. The drink was sweeter than he’d been expecting from it’s dark color. Not bad, though not something he’d ever had before.  
  
Around them, other patrons drank and danced. The crowd was already dense, buzzing with too many substances and too much motion. Lights flashed and swirled, different colors and patterns playing across the floor and the walls in the dark establishment.  
  
“No, I guess not.” Grimmjow chuckled. His mind was only half at the club, though, as he already began mentally going through preparations for his newest acquirement. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a quick message to the man he’d left in charge at his estate while he was out hunting. The message was quick and simple, a single number and a single letter. It would be all the good doctor would need to begin prepping a new holding cell.  
  
“Might as well enjoy it while you can.” Grimmjow finally continued as his phone buzzed. He opened it up to see that the returning message was blank, and grinned that shark grin of his, baring perfect white teeth. “It wont be everyday an underaged, orphan halfbreed makes it into this place.”  
  
Shiro nearly choked on the drink he’d been taking, slowly lowering the heavy glass as he turned a burning glare over at the big human. It was as blatant as any insult he’d yet received in his nearly twenty years of life and he’d heard quite a few. Dwelling in the Shallows wasn’t exactly a comfortable living for a human, let alone a hollow. It was even worse for a mixblood like himself.  
  
He bared his teeth in response, pushing his half empty glass aside as he turned to fully face the handsome human. Golden eyes glowed with indignant anger, the sea of black they swam in only making the vivid color look all the sharper, more dangerous. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He seethed.  
  
Grimmjow merely laughed, relaxed where he sat on his barstool, despite that the offended smaller lad looked ready to jump at him.  
  
Shiro snarled an unhappy, aggressive sound, sneer tugging at his pale lips. He pushed away from the bar and to his feet, but as he spun toward the bigger man and took that first step, the room spun with him and the aggressive expression fell away. Ashen brows furrowed as deep, rumbling laughter seemed to echo through his skull. His hand reached out and found Grimmjow’s jacket as he started to lose his balance, stumbling in the small space between them.  
  
The bigger man leaned in close, wrapping his hand harshly around the lad’s arm just above his elbow as he held Shiro upright. In a grating whisper, he spoke right against the hybrid’s pale ear, lips brushing fevered skin. “If you had parents, maybe they would have taught you not to accept drinks from handsome strangers.”  
  
 **••• The estate : present •••**  
  
The pale slave swallowed thickly, wincing as he gingerly rubbed at his black and blue throat. He sighed, golden eyes rolling upward to look at Ichigo. The forced medication was wearing off finally, and he was beginning to feel a little more like himself.  
  
Reaching over to the side, Shiro not so discreetly fisted pale fingers into the dark sheets of the bed he’d previously been writhing and grinding against. He yanked them over, dropping the corner over his lap in some pitiful but natural need to hide what was left of his slowly waning erection. He knew it was a little stupid and very pointless: he’d already given the detective a few shows by now, not to mention their previous meetings, but for some reason, it made him feel a little better, a little less...pathetic.  
  
“It’s really not an interestin’ story.” He finally said, gaze flickering off toward the side for a brief moment before returning to Ichigo’s form. “I was young. He was a good lookin’, older guy.”  
  
“I’d still like to hear it.” Ichigo told him, standing nearby but not so close as to be intrusive or invasive. “If you’re still planning to go through with helping me, than you’ll have to tell me eventually, Shiro...”  
  
“Yeah...I know.” The slave finally dropped his gaze altogether, his hand leaving the fresh bruising along his neck to scrub over his face and back through his long hair. He pushed the long strands back, away from where they usually fell to frame his features, and held them at the base of his neck, before his startling eyes resolutely looked back up at Ichigo. “Will you open the window again..?” He asked, his voice quiet, timid almost.  
  
It took Ichigo a moment to respond, his focus drawn to stark, white skin and the elegant curve of where the lad’s neck and shoulder met. Boyish features were drawn and tired -of everything- but no less handsome. And Shiro’s eyes were still alive. They were flat and guarded most of the time, the look of a man that had seen too much, been through too much, but there were still flickers. There were still hints of fire every now and then.  
  
The detective nodded after a moment and wordlessly turned to cross the room as Shiro began his tale. He told Ichigo everything he could remember about that night, more than a year ago now. It seemed both so long ago, and only the other day.  
  
“He walked me right through the crowd, pushin’ between people and pullin’ me along. I could barely even stay on my feet.” He hung his head, ran his fingers back through his hair again as he took a deep, even breath and finished his quick story. “Halfway ta the backdoor, he gave up on even tryin’ ta keep me up, and just...picked me up, like I didn’ weight anythin’. Next thing I r’member’s...rain.” He pale halfbreed shrugged a bit and shook his head where it settled in his hands. He didn’t look up though, and when he continued, his voice was quiet, lost. “No one even bothered ta stop ‘im, or ask if I was alright as he was carryin’ me from the club. No one even noticed...no one cared.”  
  
Ichigo remained quiet through out the quick story. It was tragically normal, something that could happen to anyone. Shiro shouldn’t have even been in that club, and had the doorman turned him away like he was supposed to, like his job had dictated... But he hadn’t, and Shiro had fallen victim to a man he’d had no chance against.  
  
The room was quiet for a few long seconds, before Shiro slowly looked back up at the detective. His inverted eyes were desperate, watery and beseeching as he spoke in a trembling, near whisper of a voice. “I-I don’t wanna die in this place, Ichigo...anywhere but here...”


	7. Chapter 7

**••• The estate : several hours ago •••**  
  
Shiro cringed, features twisting as a strained sound managed to crawl up his throat when sharp teeth sank into the flesh at the back of his neck. The hand fisted in his long hair tightened, forcing his head further around and pressing his skull more securely against the hard ground. The cement grated harshly against his cheekbone. His black nails curled against the floor, sharp and strong enough to leave white scratch marks behind, but no real damage.  
  
He couldn’t decide if it was blood or saliva that dripped down the curve of his spine, maybe both. The pale slave could feel as the muscle and bone of his neck creaked under the pressure keeping it turned to a debilitating and painful degree. He grit his teeth and shut his eyes, panting. Small, groaning sounds of discomfort road each breath. Then the teeth unlatched, leaving a deep and bloodied mark behind, and he felt as Grimmjow shifted, bringing red stained lips closer to his features. The slave trader’s breath was hot as he grunted and thrust behind Shiro.  
  
“We’re going to play a new game.” Grimmjow grunted out, one hand fisted too tightly in pale hair and the other anchored in a white knuckled grip at the slave’s hip. A cruel grin curled the corners of his lips and his tongue snaked out to slick along Shiro’s ear. The slave whimpered and tried to recoil, but couldn’t go anywhere. “It’s an hour before sundown and you’ll be sober for your first client tonight.” Grimmjow continued, never pausing in his brutal thrusts as he enjoyed what was his. He spoke right against the slave’s ear, smirk showing in his grating, rough voice. “Play nicely. If you tear him up, I’ll double your client base for the week.”  
  
Shiro’s golden eyes grew wide under the threat and the implications of his already significant work load being doubled. With his exotic looks, he was already among Grimmjow’s highest sought after whores. If that number doubled... He wouldn’t be able to walk. He’d be lucky if he could even climb from the bed in his room at the end of the night. But the thought of laying under a client when he was clear of mind and capable of putting an end to it was a terrifying one. There was no way for him to win in this.   
  
And to top everything off, being clear of mind, not being under the influence of the debilitating drugs would prove to be a harsh blow to his already fragile mental stability. At least while drugged, he could reason with himself. He could tell himself that it wasn’t his fault that he let everything happen, he could argue and reason that he’d had no choice but to do the things he’d done and let be done to him. But Grimmjow was taking that small comfort away from him.  
  
He grit his teeth, eyes squeezing shut against his reality as the big man rutting behind him thrust one last time. Grimmjow buried himself deep with his release, growling a possessive and moaning sound against Shiro’s ear as he finished. His blue eyes swirled with malice and cruel knowing. The slave trader understood exactly what he was doing. He’d yet to meet someone he couldn’t break and he didn’t plan on the pretty little slave laying below him being the first.  
  
Later that night, Shiro looked on with horror as who would become his first client of the evening stopped before his cage. Beside the customer, Grimmjow smirked and held the slave’s wide eyes with his own piercing gaze as prices, time limits and regulations were discussed.  
  
In the end, the enslaved young man really only had one option open to him. When the client entered his room, where he was chained to the bed and unable to escape, he put up a bit of resistance at first, but there was no where he could go and nothing he could do. Shiro ended up succumbing to the client’s demands. Bent over the edge of the bed, he twisted his hands in the sheets, black nails biting through cloth, and squeezed his eyes shut against what was happening. He couldn’t block out the sounds though, or the smells, or the way it felt, and he fought back tears of panic and frustration, of disgust and self-loathing.  
  
Hours went by, client after client strolling through the room, using him, and leaving again. After they were done with him, the collar would be unlocked and removed and Shiro would be bathed quickly and brought back to his cell, like usual. Only this night, instead of using that time to allow the forced drugs to wear through his system, Shiro spent it in a silent state that bordered on shock. Grimmjow or Szayel or one of the few others that were allowed to handle him would drag him back and deposit him on his cot, where he would sit. And sit. Until the next client came through the hold and selected him.  
  
Even when Nel would chance moving to the front of her own cage, wrap her fingers around the bars, push as close as she could, and try to get his attention, Shiro remained quiet, his eyes a little too wide and a slight tremble to his entire body. If he heard her worried voice, he made no effort to show it and his gaze remained locked on the cement between his bare feet.  
  
After the first several sessions, when his cell was unlocked, Shiro began climbing to his feet and coming to the front of his cage without prompt. In the effort to preserve some part of itself, his conscious thought retreated to the darkest corners of his mind and let his body run on autopilot. The automatic, silent response brought the biggest grin of triumph to Grimmjow’s face. Perhaps he’d finally managed to tear through that last piece of tarnished, crumbling armour.  
  
Late into the night, Shiro was pulled from his cell again. He obediently stood as the door was unlocked, and walked from the hold under his own power and without guidance to keep him in line. But despite his compliance, his breathing was a carefully controlled, too even pace that showed the effort he put into not crumbling and a slight tremble ran through him as he walked at the slave trader’s side.  
  
Grimmjow opened the door to his room and Shiro, without prompt, entered and made his way over to the large bed. He sat on it’s edge and watched as the bigger male approached and pulled the collar from where it’d been sitting on the mattress. Curling his lip slightly, Shiro fisted his hands in his lap and didn’t meet blue eyes as the collar was wrapped around his throat. He’d lost count how many times he’d gone through this on this night alone. It was locked so that he couldn’t remove it, and he flinched with the small sound.  
  
Strong fingers closed around the underside of his chin, jerked his head around and upward so that he was forced to meet cold blue eyes as Grimmjow glared down at him.   
  
“You’ve been doing so well tonight.” The big man praised, but his voice was low and warning. “Don’t start acting up now.”  
  
Shiro pulled out of the hold, a defiant fire lighting in his belly, but his golden gaze dropped and he made no move against the slave trader. The slightest of nods was his answer to the demands given.  
  
“Good.” It seemed enough of an agreement to Grimmjow and the man straightened to leave. “Maybe I’ll even reward you later.”  
  
The door was pulled shut behind the slave trader and Shiro sat in silence for a second, breathing slowly quickening until his chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt and his fingers were fisted harshly enough that his nails cut small crescents into his palms but he didn’t care about any of that. The dam he’d thrown up to help him survive the night was breaking and Grimmjow’s words and voice echoing in his head only drove the wedge deeper, made the cracks wider.  
  
This wasn’t him...he couldn’t do this. Why had he been letting all those clients use him? It stung deeper than any cut when he realized that in the past, months ago when he’d first arrived, before he’d been broken so throughly, the threat of punishment wouldn’t have stopped him from trying to kill the first person thrown into the room with him. But now...he’d been reduced to fear, to a pitiful shell of who he’d once been. He’d been turned into the slave that obeyed, that laid under the people shown to his room because that was what his master asked and demanded of him. Shiro knew it to be true, and he hated it.  
  
The pale slave’s lilting, distorted scream tore his throat raw as Shiro let loose, letting that wall he’d thrown up finally shatter like the silence in the room. It shook through his very being, made the muscle of his body ache and blurred his vision. When the air in his lungs ran out, he pushed himself off the bed, panting as he turned and wrapped colorless fingers around the chain attached to the collar at his throat. He yanked and pulled and snarled but he already knew it was useless, so he turned his hate driven aggression on other things.  
  
He clambered over the bed and reached as far as he could. The various gifts that had been scattered across the top of the dresser in his room were flung about the room, some shattering with the sharp sound of glass. He didn’t even pay attention to what he grabbed, he didn’t care. Something heavy ended up in his hand and he threw it. The large mirror that hung above the couch on the opposite wall cracked, shards falling away to litter the dark material of the furniture.  
  
There wasn’t much kept within his reach, specifically for this reason as well as the safety of the clients, but Shiro made a mess of his room all the same. Next, he turned to the bed itself. He bared teeth, features twisted with rage and loathing and a pain too deep to be physical. The sound of shredding fabric and his grunts of effort mixed with his panting breaths as he destroyed the plush pillows that sat at the head of the bed. Feathers floated around the room, covering the dark, wooden floor in a snowy white. Bed sheets were pulled up, torn, knotted, whatever he could do to them, before thrown across the room. The bare mattress was dragged from it’s frame, but it was large and heavy and Shiro reached the end of his chain before he could manage to maneuver it clear. So he left it sit askew and half on the floor before going for the next thing in his reach.  
  
But the soft sound of the doorknob twisting cut through the ruckus he was making and the pale halfbreed froze in place, eyes widening with a sudden and cold fear as he stared at what he’d done. Ice slid down his spine and facing the interior of the room, he had to remind himself to breathe as the door was pushed open behind him.  
  
When nothing but silence met him, he slowly turned away from the interior of the room to face his next client, jaw clenching as he tried to steel himself for what was sure to come. Grimmjow would be called. He would be punished.  
  
But it wasn’t another client that faced him with an openly shocked expression. It was Ichigo.   
  
A small sound squeaked from Shiro’s throat as he shot toward the detective he’d come to accept and even begun to rely upon in the past few weeks. Ichigo had become his anchor, that small sliver left to hold him together. He reached the end of his chain before he reached the detective and the slave whimpered a pitiful sound as he wrapped his fingers around the collar and tugged but didn’t go anywhere, like a wolf that wasn’t used to being chained up as if a dog.  
  
The wide, beseeching eyes that turned toward him was all Ichigo needed to snap out of his shock at walking in to find the disaster that he had. The room looked like hell had broken loose, but the blast radius was very obviously centered around the bed Shiro was tied to. Ichigo pulled his stunned gaze away from the mess to match the slave’s near desperate look with wide, soft brown eyes of his own.  
  
The detective took the few strides that separated them and when the lad, who normally feared and wasn’t very trusting of most touches, clenched pale fingers into the front of his shirt, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around the nearly naked man. Shiro trembled against him, shook with the exertion he’d put into his tantrum, with what he’d gone through that night, what had happened to him, and with what he would go through later. And for the first time since Ichigo had started visiting him, the detective finally witnessed as hot, terrified and exhausted tears washed down pale features.  
  
It was the first time that Shiro had truly cried -real, desperate tears and not just a few, silent tears- in what seemed like a very long time.  
  
Broken, hiccuping sobs stole what was left of his energy after a long and truly horrifying night. The emotional release left him drained and empty. The two slowly sank to the floor as the slave began sagging against the detective. Ichigo guided their motions, cradling Shiro close as he slowly ran his fingers through long, white hair. They sat for several long, silent minutes before a small frown began pulling at Ichigo’s handsome features as he began to register that something was very off about all this. And it wasn’t just the unexpected contact.  
  
“Shiro?” He asked quietly, still holding the other close, letting the pale lad curl against his chest. The smallest of inquisitive hums was his reply. Ichigo looked down at the young man as best he could, brushing pale hair away from equally ashen features. He hesitated just slightly, unsure how the abused male would react, before settling his hand against the side of Shiro’s face and feeling the temperature of smooth skin. “What happened? Did they...y-you’re not drugged right now, are you?”  
  
Shiro swallowed thickly, breath hitching slightly, and shook his head in a small, jerky motion. His fingers tightened further, clenching in the fabric that clothed the detective’s chest hard enough that the bones of his knuckles creaked.  
  
Ichigo’s first reaction was elation. He hated seeing the poor lad drugged out of his mind and doing things he couldn’t control. He knew Shiro hated it too, hated what it made him do and how it made him feel. The slave hated what it reduced him to. But confusion washed in before the smile on his lips could form, and he had to wonder why Jaegerjaquez would suddenly stop administering the chemicals that made the unwilling slave compliant.  
  
As the detective tried to mull it over, it suddenly became very apparent and the tantrum that he hadn’t actually witnessed suddenly made sense. “Oh my god, Shiro...” He whispered, brown eyes wide. It was already late in the night. The sun would be coming up in a couple hours, and the establishment opened with sundown. The slaves Jaegerjaquez rented out had already been working for hours. That included Shiro and Shiro was still clear minded, still sober...still fully understood what was going on and what he was doing. “I’m so sorry...”  
  
“I can’t do this, Ichigo...” Shiro breathed against him, “What’s next? Every time I think there’s nothin’ else he can do ta me, he finds somethin’...I-I can’t do this anymore...”  
  
“Don’t say that, Shiro...” Orange brows furrowed and Ichigo was glad that the lad was still buried against him because he couldn’t quite school his features, couldn’t quite keep from showing that the young man’s raw pain was getting to him. “You can’t give up yet, it wont be long now.”   
  
“How long?” Because however long it would end up being, it was still too long. Maybe Grimmjow had been right, maybe he really had already won. Maybe the big man really could break anything. Shiro certainly felt broken. He felt hollow, empty. Dead, yet still raw. And he hurt. Everything hurt; his body, his head, his mind. Emotional pain mixed with physical pain in a way that made his chest tight and made breathing hard. The fading bruises that ringed his pale neck throbbed with the beat of his heart and it was the only thing that kept him feeling alive, that let him know this was all still happening. His heart still beat in his chest, and when he finally fell asleep, he would wake up in the morning to start all over again.  
  
Ichigo ran his fingers through long, white hair, but he knew that there was nothing he could do or say that would ease what the slave was going through.   
  
“Not long.” He repeated, unable to bring himself to tell Shiro that he had no real idea how long it would be. They still needed clearance, they still needed to jump through all the legal hoops it would take for them to get the warrant with the strength they needed for a raid of the scale they were going for.  
  
“What else do ya need ta know? H-haven’t I told ya ‘nough yet?” Shiro weakly pleaded, beyond being able to care if he sounded pathetic and desperate because that’s exactly what he was. One hand unlatched from Ichigo’s shirt to further cover his tear streaked features as his voice wavered just slightly. “I’ll tell ya anythin’...I’ll do whatever ya want me ta...just-”  
  
“I’ll get you out of here.” Ichigo told him, resolution in his voice. Despite that he worried he’d frighten the young man, or make him uncomfortable where he unexpectedly huddled, Ichigo tightened his grip around lean shoulders. “I promise.”  
  
Nearly half an hour passed before Shiro even began attempting to extract himself from where he’d buried against the detective. When he finally began pulling himself together, it was a sluggish, shaky effort. After his anger and adrenaline had run it’s course, after he’d had time to calm back down, he climbed to his feet and turned to look back towards his handy work, towards what he was left with and what he would ultimately have to face sooner rather than later. Ichigo stood at his side and looked at the mess as well, but he wouldn’t have to face it the same way the slave would have to. He wouldn’t have to face Grimmjow when the big man found what Shiro had done.  
  
“What happens when he sees the room?” Shiro asked quietly, though it wasn’t really a question, nor was it really aimed at Ichigo. “He’s gonna kill me.”  
  
“No, he’s not.” Ichigo told him, rounding the pale slave to near the bed and the mattress that had been dragged from it’s frame. “We’ll fix it.”  
  
“Uh...ya lookin’ at the same room I’m lookin’ at?” Shiro quirked a brow, gesturing towards the mess, the broken glass, the feathers that lay scattered all over the room.  
  
Ichigo grimaced, conceding the lad’s point. “Ok, well, we’ll fix what we can so it’s not as bad. How about that? It’ll be better than leaving it as is.”  
  
“Guess.” Shiro half mumbled, moving to help drag the mattress back onto the bed’s heavy wooden frame.  
  
The detective was a little surprised how far Shiro had managed to yank it, after realizing just how heavy the large mattress was while they maneuvered it. But anger was a strong motivator, and though the lad’s size was that of a human, he was more hollow than actual human. After righting the mattress, Ichigo crossed the room and began gathering the sheets the slave had ripped from the bed and thrown across the room.  
  
“Wait.” Shiro stepped to the end of his chain and watched the detective. “Ya can’t touch any a that stuff.”  
  
Ichigo looked up at him, a bundle of cloth in his hands. He studiously ignored the subtle but lingering smell that clung to them. Despite having obviously been washed recently, the smell of sweat and sex was still a barely there reminder of just what happened to the pale young man on a regular basis. “Why not?”  
  
“B’coz if ya do, he’s gonna know ya helped me try ta fix the room.”  
  
“He doesn’t have to you even threw these over here.” Ichigo pointed out, continuing to grab the rest of the sheets and bring them back over to the bed. “I’ll clean up whatever you can’t reach that we can put back. I can’t fix the mirror...” He said with a small wince, looking at the spider web of cracks that ran through the polished surface and the few jagged shards that had rained upon the couch below it. “So I wont touch it or whatever you threw to break it... We’ll just fix what we can without making him suspicious.”  
  
Shiro thought about it as his gold on black eyes scanned the room and the state of it. Then he nodded slightly, wordlessly accepting the sheets that were brought over to him. Without a sound, he shook them out and began refitting them across the mattress. It was risky, letting Ichigo help him, and he knew it was. They couldn’t possibly clean up everything. What about all the down feathers scattered everywhere? Or what if Grimmjow paid more attention than he thought to the layout of the various trinkets and gifts he’d received that normally sat upon the dresser? But at the same time, he couldn’t refuse the detective’s help... Despite that he should have, he couldn’t argue against it. He just couldn’t...not when the orange haired man’s help might save him from a more sever beating. The threat of punishment looming over his head had become a terrifying thing. He wanted to argue, and he wanted to fight it. He wanted to deny that he was afraid and deny that anything Grimmjow could do to him would ever tame him, but he was doubting that more and more and self preservation was natural. So he went quiet, and he let Ichigo help him and tried not to think about the events that had already transpired that night or the ones that were surely still to come.  
  
Ichigo easily noticed the way the lad had fallen silent, wordlessly complying with the things he said. The detective knew there was an invisible struggle going on in the young man’s mind, a struggle Shiro likely didn’t even realize was happening at this point. He couldn’t struggle against the slave trader, so now he struggled with himself. He fought to hold onto who he was, to continue defying what was happening to him. He clawed his way through the trauma and fear and pain trying to destroy him, drown him. But no matter how desperate, how strong, a drowning man could only stay afloat for so long before he began to tire, before the currents and waves of his surroundings and circumstances began to wear him down. Ichigo could see it in those inverted eyes: Shiro was tired. He was sinking.  
  
The two did as much as they could to fix up the room. Ichigo picked up as many of the little things the slave had been gifted with by other clients and, with Shiro’s help, put them all back on the top of the dresser as close to their original spots as possible. They decided that other people picked the various trinkets up and looked at them often enough that they wouldn’t need to be exact, general locations should suffice. There wasn’t much either could do about the shredded pillows, so Ichigo scooped the feathers up and they piled them on the bed, so that it at least looked like Shiro had mostly kept his tantrum contained to the small area he could actually move about in. Making the mess more compact and contained would hopefully help keep the slave trader’s temper from flaring quite so violently.  
  
Eventually, Ichigo had to leave. No matter how badly he wanted to stay, no matter how badly he wanted to finally be able to remove Shiro from his hell, the detective couldn’t yet. As Shiro had inadvertently pointed out earlier, they did have enough evidence and information to proceed with an arrest, but they needed a warrant first, if all their work and all of Shiro’s suffering was going to stand up in court. It was a waiting game now, a clock ticking as it counted down.  
  
Crossing the silent room and unlocking the door, Ichigo paused to look back at the slave he was quickly growing attached to. Shiro sat upon the bed, legs curled under him and his pale features wearing a carefully controlled blank expression. It was the slight shakiness to his equally controlled breathing that gave away where his thoughts were obviously headed.  
  
“I promise, Shiro...” Ichigo told him again, with a small nod of his head. “and I always keep my promises. Always.”  
  
Golden eyes panned upward to meet his gaze, but the slave said nothing. Then Ichigo was gone and Shiro sat in wait for the punishment he knew he’d be receiving soon. He dreaded the moment when someone came to retrieve him and bring him back to his cage.  
  
Striding down the hall, Ichigo dreaded that moment as well, fearful of what would happen to the pale lad. He was torn between being relieved by Shiro’s continued bursts of anger and rebellion and wishing they wouldn’t happen. It was a relief to know that at least some part of Shiro was still fighting and struggling against what was happening to him, but Ichigo knew it would only bring the young man more pain and more suffering. He didn’t want to see the lad give up, he wanted the enslaved man’s spirit to stay strong and willful and lively, but all the physical abuse he took for still having that defiant streak was clearly beginning to snuff out the lad’s fire. It flickered fitfully, casting wild shadows and burning brightly, but it was like a candle in the wind. It was only a matter of time before the breeze got too strong and nothing but smoke and a burned exterior was left.  
  
Ichigo made his way down the hall and toward the exit. He was always escorted to the room, but it was always a toss up on whether he’d end up with an escort out or not. Since he’d become a regular customer, it seemed he was given a little more trust and freedom within the estate. Though he knew it was a rouse. With all the cameras put up in the halls, the slave trader’s secretary and the looming threat that was the doctor wondering the halls, none of the guests were ever truly alone or free within the corridors.  
  
This night, however, he did have something of an escort and he was met at the top of the stairs by Jaegerjaquez’s pinked haired associate, Szayel, the magic-user. Ichigo did well at hiding his hesitation, caused because now he knew a little more of what the effeminate man was capable of. His steps faltered just slightly, before the detective continued as if nothing was wrong. He stepped right up to the magic-user’s side as Szayel tipped his head slightly in greeting. Ichigo took note of the slight arch to pink brows and he wondered if the slim man had picked up on his hesitation all the same, but from what he understood, the halfbreed had to be touching whatever or whoever he was casting over. That only seemed to make the pink haired male all the more dangerous. Not only was he skilled in magic, but he was also cunning and observative.  
  
“Good evening.” Ichigo greeted the taller male, his voice friendly enough.  
  
“Evening, Mr. Kurosaki,” The magic-user greeted back, a sly little smile resting on his pretty features. “I trust you’ve enjoyed your stay this night. Shiro treats you well?”  
  
“He does.” Ichigo confirmed, fighting back the scathing tone that wanted to show his dislike of what the magic-user had been implying. He sent a pointed look toward the pink haired doctor, a single orange brow arching slightly in an almost accusing way. “Though he seemed...off tonight. Aside from the obvious.”  
  
He watched pink brows rise in mock surprised, yellow eyes flashing behind clean lenses. “Aside from the obvious, hmm. Is that so? Well he was having a bit of a bad day, earlier. Unfortunately, even slaves have those.”  
  
“I’m sure they do.” More than a year’s worth of bad days. Ichigo did well at keeping his features neutral though, pleasant even, because he couldn’t afford to blow his cover now. It was all a waiting game at this point, and he was beginning to get the feeling that the magic-user was quite good at those.  
  
Ichigo pulled the door to the front entrance and exit open, but paused again as Szayel’s voice called to him from where the doctor had stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Do have a good week, Mr. Kurosaki. We look forward to your next visit.”  
  
Ichigo turned to smile at the man over his shoulder, “As do I.” and left.  
  
As was typical for the time of year, a chill, misty rain coated the city in dampness as the detective hurried to his car and climbed in. He started the vehicle up and took off, down narrow streets that crisscrossed through the heart of the Shallows. The windshield wipers of his car flicked back and forth...back and forth, in a slow but steady and monotonous way. Headlights illuminated the dark road as the detective crossed the city, driving a little faster than he probably should have been.  
  
He pulled his phone from the middle compartment and held it up, glancing from the phone to the road and back as he dialed the commissioner’s personal line. Pulling it to his ear, he listened as it rang a half dozen times. Considering the time, he wasn’t that surprised that the older man was mostly likely sleeping, but Ichigo didn’t particularly care if he woke him up. This was important.  
  
A sleep roughened voice answered finally, “Hello?”  
  
“Sir!” Ichigo all but shouted over the line, one hand on the steering wheel as he drove. “We need to talk.”  
  
“Ichigo? Are you just leaving the estate?”  
  
Ichigo heard the man, but mostly ignored him, “We need to get that warrant asap. Our time window may be shrinking significantly.” He tapped the breaks, looking left, then right, before coasting through the stop sign he’d been approaching and hitting the gas again, “Shiro’s not holding up so well anymore and-”  
  
“-Ichigo-”  
  
“-we’ll be lucky if Jaegerjaquez doesn’t kill him or finally break him. We need that warrant and we need it now. If something happens to Shiro-”  
  
“Kurosaki!”  
  
Ichigo paused, wincing at the extra volume against his ear. “Yes, sir?”  
  
“Calm down. Hang up the phone, concentrate on driving and I’ll meet you at the station. We can talk about this when you get here.”  
  
“But this can’t really-”  
  
“Yes it can. It can wait the forty minutes it’ll take you to get here in one piece.” The commissioner assured, as always, concerned for the safety of his men.  
  
“I’ll be there in twenty-five.” Ichigo told him.   
  
The commissioner started to protest, about to tell the young detective that he still needed to obey common street laws, but the line went dead as Ichigo hung up. With a sigh, the commissioner rolled out of bed to get dressed and begin his day early.  
  
True to what Ichigo had said, right about twenty-five minutes later, he pulled into the station parking lot and shut his car off in the space besides his boss’s vehicle. The rest of the lot was mostly empty, letting him know it’d be just the two of them for this little conversation. If the commissioner thought the time it took Ichigo to get there would be enough to calm him down, the man was wrong, and Ichigo pushed through the front doors, flashing his badge to the single guard on staff at night even though there was no mistaking him for someone else. He didn’t wait for a confirmation, and pushed passed the guard and headed straight toward the commissioner’s office, where he was sure the older gentlemen would be.  
  
The commissioner watched the fiery young man enter his office at a pace that showed his urgency on the matter they were to be discussing. He picked up a steaming cup of fresh coffee, bringing it to his lips as he sat at his desk. He motioned for Ichigo to have a seat in one of the chairs that faced the front of said desk. “Coffee?” He offered.  
  
“No, thank you.” Ichigo declined, pushing a hand back through his spiky orange hair as he paced a short path, then finally dropped into one of the chairs. He pulled it forward, seated at the very edge and looked at the commissioner over the top of the desk. “We need that warrant, sir, and we need it sooner rather than later.”  
  
The commissioner nodded slightly, taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m working on.”  
  
“No, sir, you don’t understand. We need it now.” Ichigo insisted, “Jaegerjaquez has already showed suspicion. It’s only a matter of time before he gets too paranoid or really figures us out. And he’s got his doctor checking in on me again.”  
  
“The magic-user?”  
  
“Yes. And Shiro’s...” Ichigo trailed off and shook his head a bit, thinking about how badly Jaegerjaquez’s most recent ploy to break him had affected the young man. “He’s...not headed in a good direction, sir. We need to get him out.”  
  
“We can’t yet, not until we have the warrant.” The commissioner restated what his detective already knew. No matter how bad things got, the slave stayed put until they could get the warrant and shut Jaegerjaquez down.  
  
“Then get the warrant! If something happens, and he’s killed or finally cracks, the whole thing will be lost. Jaegerjaquez will win again. And we wont get another chance like this you know we wont. Shiro is our only chance at this.”  
  
“I know, Kurosaki, and I’m trying. I’ve already sent in the request for the warrant. I called in yesterday and even got them to push it to the front of the line.” The commissioner informed. It was news to Ichigo. The older man had filled out the request and handed it over to the court responsible for filling out warrants without telling anyone. He’d guessed this would happen, the moment Ichigo had told them about the magic-user, he’d begun the process of getting a warrant for their raid. “It’s a waiting game now. You’ll keep visiting him during your scheduled appointments like nothing’s happened. Get as much information as you can out of him, and do whatever you can to keep him from breaking. It’s just a matter of time, Kurosaki. Keep him believing it’ll only be a few more days, even if it’s a month.”  
  
Ichigo sat in silence as he took in what the commissioner said. It was good news, the request had been sent in and there was no way, with all the evidence they’d gathered and witness testimony, that they wouldn’t get approved, but it was hard to tell how long the wait would end up being, and Shiro didn’t have much time on his side.  
  
 **••• back at the estate : present •••**  
  
Ashen brows furrowed and Shiro shrank back as the doorknob to his room twisted. His jaw clenched, fingers toying idly with the lock on his collar as he curled his arms against his bare chest. He knew who would be entering soon, and he knew the big human wouldn’t be pleased.   
  
He and Ichigo had managed to fix up the room quite a bit, and it looked far better now than it had right after he’d destroyed the place, but the sheets were still ripped in places and the bed and floor below was still littered with feathers from the pillows. The mirror wouldn’t escape notice either. It was obvious what he’d done.  
  
The door swung open and it was with even more dread than usual that handsome features and chaotic blue hair entered the slave’s field of vision. Grimmjow stopped dead in the doorway, expressionless as he took in what was left of the mess the mixblooded slave had made.  
  
Shiro swallowed, fighting down panic and a bitter, stinging taste that rose in his throat like bile as those impossibly blue eyes zeroed in on him. He shrank back further under that heated, unhappy gaze, but he was already at the end of his chain and couldn’t back away any further.  
  
Shiro’s distorted voice was barely a whisper as the slave trader stalked into the room and rounded the bed toward him. “I-I’m sorry...”   
  
The words, a tiny phrase that had never before slipped passed colorless lips in all the time Shiro had been in Grimmjow’s possession, brought a sardonic chuckle to Grimmjow’s throat. It didn’t spare the slave, though, and Shiro yelped as he was yanked from his feet and shoved against the wall. The hand wrapped around his collar, so that it could be unlocked and removed, pulled tighter than was necessary, the black marketeer’s motions jerky with his boiling anger.  
  
Szayel leaned around the door frame at that moment, his golden eyes taking in the state of the room before focusing on his human partner and the smaller, mixblooded male cowering in his grasp. It didn’t escape his notice that the pale creature wasn’t really struggling though, despite his obvious fright, nor was the lad trying to get away. He simply cowered in the face of Grimmjow’s rage, and made no move against it.  
  
“Well,” Szayel spoke up, his voice a too cheery, almost musical chime. “at least he didn’t tear up any of the clients this evening. Bedding and a mirror can be replaced.”  
  
“Guess who’ll be working off the damages.” Grimmjow rumbled in reply to his doctor’s statement, dropping the collar to the ground with the dull thump of heavy leather and the sharp jingle of chains. The smallest of pitiful whimpers crawled up Shiro’s throat as his wide eyes stared up at the slave trader, raw and too easily read. A dark, horrible knowing swirled in golden depths, as the halfbreed easily predicted what he was in for.  
  
By the time Grimmjow’s anger had mostly run it’s course, he had to drag the slave from the room, his hand wrapped bruisingly tight around the smaller male’s upper arm. Shiro stumbled at his side, breaths coming in wheezing pants and blood streaking his features. His pale complexion was already darkening in places, the evidence of his punishment leaving harsh, blueish marks behind as he was led through the halls. He only stayed on his feet because to give in to the swimming blackness that crowded around the edges of his vision would be to invite another beating.   
  
They stormed into the slave hold, the heavy door slamming open with a resounding bang that echoed in the concrete space. The other slaves obediently cowered, averting gazes and adamantly ignoring that their owner was storming by with exotic hybrid. None would stand up to him. None would face his wrath. They never had before, why would they now? Shiro was on his own, like he always.  
  
Szayel trailed behind them, but he already knew without asking that Grimmjow would instruct him to leave the damaged slave as he was, at least for the remainder of the night. Then perhaps he’d be able to assess just how bad the damage was, and mend anything that would cause permanent issues. But he was almost certain that Shiro would be left to heal from his superficial bruising naturally. The punishment wouldn’t sink in, after all, if he wasn’t allowed to suffer it properly.  
  
Shiro was thrown into his cell, where he stumbled to the back wall, hands pressed against cold concrete. It was only a moment before he sank to the ground, his legs trembling beneath him. The barred, cage door was slid shut and locked, and he was left to his misery and his pain.  
  
The next day, Shiro was put back to work like usual. The mirror had already been replaced with a new one of a similar shape and style. The sheets on his bed were new, the pillows too. The feathers had been cleaned up and the entire room had been straightened and fixed up. Everything looked brand new and yet again, nothing was left to show Shiro’s burst of defiance, no marks to show his struggle. The only evidence left to show he’d not quite given in just yet were the dark bruises on his body, the soreness that came with his movements from the beating his captor had called punishment.  
  
The only thing to prove he hadn’t been completely broken, to show that he was still himself, was the beating he’d earned, and there was still a twisted smile on Grimmjow's handsome features.


	8. Chapter 8

**••• The estate : present •••**  
  
Ichigo was back with the next week, attending his regularly scheduled visit. It was with an uneasy feeling resting in the pit of his stomach that he entered the estate. It’d only been seven days since he’d last seen the pale slave that was playing informant to the detective and Shiro had been struggling before. Ichigo feared how an extra week had treated the lad.   
  
He checked in with the woman at the front desk in the rotunda area, and she smiled as she welcomed him by name. Now that Jaegerjaquez officially knew he was there to spend his night as usual, all that was left was to wait the few minutes it would take for Shiro to be brought to his room, and the slave trader to come retrieve him and show him up the stairs and down the hall.  
  
As he’d come to expect of the man, Jaegerjaquez didn’t keep him waiting long. The big slave trader was surprisingly professional when it came to his customers, at least the customers of his more legal business. It was almost difficult to imagine the atrocities that had been described to him occurring in what seemed like such a well run and almost respectable establishment, considering the nature of the business. But then he’d already known Jaegerjaquez to be a crook before he’d signed on to this job, and he’d seen more than his fair share of irrefutable proof written cross pale skin and in not quite human eyes.  
  
No more than a few minutes after he’d checked in, Ichigo was greeted by what was now a familiar face. A pleasant smile rested on angular features, showing no sign at all of what Ichigo was sure had occurred after his last visit.  
  
“Good evening, Mr. Kurosaki.” Grimmjow greeted, ever the polite host to his guests, like all good businessmen were. “I hope you’re up for a more calm night than usual. Your preferred companion has had a rough week. He seemed a bit on the sluggish side while I was readying your room.”  
  
As they ascended the staircase, Ichigo frowned a bit at that, brown eyes sliding over to meet brilliant blue. There was something cold and unwelcome in that gaze, something sly and slithering. Ichigo wondered if they’d gone back to drugging the slave, or perhaps had found some new method of making him compliant. Whatever it was, the detective was already certain he did not like it.  
  
“If you find him not to your liking this evening,” Grimmjow continued, “let me know and I’ll gladly let you trade him out for another of your choice.”  
  
It took Ichigo a short moment to respond, the idea somehow vile to him, but he nodded and smiled. “Thank you. He’s yet to disappoint me though, I’m sure he’ll do fine.”  
  
“I’m sure you’re right. He seems to be quite fond of you, I’m sure he’ll do his best to please you.”  
  
Ichigo hid a grimace as they strode through halls that had become familiar, toward the room Shiro was regularly locked in, the only room he was allowed to preform in because of the fiery, defiant nature he was slowly loosing. As was usual, Grimmjow handed him a skeleton key at the door and turned to go about his business with the many other responsibilities of a man that ran a multiple businesses.  
  
The detective waited a moment, while the black marketeer turned away, bidding him to enjoy his stay, before he unlocked the door and entered. He found Shiro sitting upon the side of the bed that was furthest from the door, his bare back bowed and facing Ichigo. His spine was a harsh ridge below pale flesh, his ribcage rising and falling with his breaths. But he made no move to so much as indicate that he knew someone had entered the room with him; no looking over his shoulder, no sounds, not even a flinch.  
  
“Shiro?” Ichigo slowly, quietly closed the door behind himself before moving to round the bed, the beginnings of a confused and worried scowl on his features. He knelt on the floor in front of the motionless slave, looking up to search gold on black that looked too blank for his liking. The lad’s long hair fell free about his shoulders, hanging in his face to partially obscure his features. The detective wasn’t surprised to see that what little of the lad’s face was visible to him showed the fading hints of healing bruises, undoubtedly the remnants of whatever had served as punishment for his deeds the other week.  
  
The furrow to Ichigo’s brows deepened as he looked the slave over, not touching him because he knew Shiro didn’t like it. Something was obviously wrong, but he couldn’t tell if it was a physical or a mental ailment. Maybe both. It was impossible to guess, at this point.   
  
After a moment, those inverted eyes shifted slightly, to finally look back at him, and Ichigo pushed a small smile across his features. The expression wasn’t returned, and still Shiro said nothing. “Shiro...you recognize me, right..?” Surely the abused male did, because Ichigo couldn’t imagine this was how he greeted his real clients: Grimmjow would never stand for something like that, but this was not the Shiro he’d been visiting. This was a shell of the lad that had been helping him all these weeks.  
  
His only answer was a very slight nod, to tell him that Shiro did indeed still know who he was.  
  
“Do you feel like talking to me today?” A shrug. Ichigo frowned again. He lifted his hand slightly, vaguely motioning towards the silent slave’s healing wounds. The small, gentle and slow motion received the strongest reaction from the slave yet.  
  
Shiro not only flinched, but jerked away and nearly fell backward, further onto the bed, like he was expecting to be struck, eyes widening slightly. When Ichigo froze, not daring to move for fear of startling the man further, when nothing came towards him, a long, shuddering breath left the slave’s lungs as he swallowed thickly and he straightened back up a bit.  
  
“Shiro...” Ichigo breathed, a pained expression crossing his handsome features. He couldn’t imagine what had happened in this past week to reduce the lad to jumping at shadows. He’d always been wary, watchful, but this... “I didn’t mean to scare you... I wont hurt you, Shiro, I promise. You believe me, right?”  
  
A small but unhesitant and sure nod.   
  
It was a small relief to Ichigo. He went back to his line of questioning, again motioning towards the healing injuries. Shiro was ready for it this time, and the movement didn’t receive nearly the same reaction, only the watchful attention of golden eyes. “Did Grimmjow do that to you?”  
  
Another small nod.  
  
“Last week, after I left?” It seemed like an obvious question, but Ichigo was only trying to get Shiro to respond, easing his way toward the more important questions he had. To his shock, he received a shake of the slave’s head, a negative, in answer. Orange brows furrowed slightly. “If not last week, then when?” They didn’t look like recent injuries, all the bruising faded to the dull greens and yellows of later stages.  
  
Shiro merely grimaced and shrugged, gaze falling toward the floor.  
  
“Can...” Ichigo hesitated, a little unsure about asking his next question. The lad had been so quiet, it was unnerving and very worrying. “Can you still speak, Shiro?”  
  
The slave’s pale jaw clenched, but a pained wince creased his features with the tightening of muscle. Shiro nodded again, before his blue tongue peeked out to run over the seam of his colorless lips, wetting them slightly. Ichigo got the impression that he hadn’t spoken in a few days at least, maybe he hadn’t since the detective’s last visit.   
  
“C-can...” He said quietly, a grimace on his features. Shiro took his time in forming his painful, mumbled words. “Hurts though...”  
  
Ichigo almost dreaded to find out what had happened after he’d left.  
  
After much careful questioning and gingerly spoken answers, as Shiro fought to speak around obviously agonizing pain, he managed to tell the detective what had happened. He first started by telling Ichigo that he had indeed received quite the punishment for his outburst, but that night, as he curled in on himself and finally managed to fall into an exhausted, dead sleep, Grimmjow had come up with something far more sinister than a simple beating. Not only had Szayel not been allowed to visit him and relieve any of his wounds, but Shiro received a wake up call every two hours. Being awoken every couple hours insured that neither his body nor his mind could get the rest it needed to begin dealing with all that had happened to him that evening, both the physical and the mental traumas. After that day of sleeplessness, Shiro had once again been put to work through out the following night, like he’d suspected he would be. But it didn’t end there. Once his last client of the night had finished with him, Grimmjow had come to unchain him, and he received yet another beating, before being dragged back to his cell.  
  
He’d been going through the same routine for the past week. Sleep came in two hour increments, then he’d be forced to service clients, then Grimmjow would dish out his continued punishment. When Grimmjow managed to break a bone, Shiro would be forced to suffer through it for what was left of the night, and through out the day while he was trying to sleep. Szayel was allowed to mend it just in time for him to receive clients, and even the process of fixing the broken bones was a painful one.  
  
Shiro had torn his throat raw with all his agonized screaming during the first healing session he received, the doctor’s magic seeming even more painful than usual. The slave trader had not appreciated his volume and so he was punished for that too. Since then, he’d went back to doing his best to stay silent, even while Grimmjow dished out punishment, even while Szayel cut him open, dug through his flesh and muscle to find the break, and pull it from his body. Over the past week, he’d received broken, fractured and bruised ribs, a broken arm, a dislocated knee and hip, and a fractured collarbone. All were healed now, of course, but it had been a truly horrifying process.  
  
His most recent punishment had knocked out teeth and broken his jaw. The injuries had only been healed hours before Ichigo arrived, just before his first customer of the night. His teeth throbbed with his pulse, head aching to the point where spots danced before his eyes, and his jaw felt almost as if wired shut. His whole body ached and to top everything off, he was exhausted, mentally and physically. Between the pain of his mended wounds and his sleep deprivation, between the many clients he had entertained that week and Grimmjow’s visits, he’d simply been too exhausted to even care what the people that had visited him this night had done to him.  
  
He told Ichigo about his week in slow, hoarse words and a blank face. The mask was forced, carefully controlled. As he fell silent, he reached up with an unsteady hand and pushed his long hair from his face. His features were worn and sunken below the healing bruises, dark circles under his eyes.  
  
Ichigo sat in stunned, shocked horror as he listened to the quiet words. His heart broke for the slave, and -unable to school his features- it showed in his warm, brown eyes. It was the detective’s turn to be silent, speechless. Several minutes passed before he finally found words.  
  
“He wont get away with this Shiro. He wont.” There was cold conviction in Ichigo’s words.  
  
Shiro finally cracked the barest hints of a smile, the very corners of his lips tilted upward in a slightly strained expression. His gaze didn’t raise though, still trained unseeingly at nothing in particular, still downward in a meek and submissive way. “It doesn’t matter.” He said it in a whisper, and Ichigo saw what was happening to the lad.  
  
“Don’t do this.” Ichigo said, shaking his head slightly, his eyes anchored on the slave’s the moment they flickered upward to match his gaze. He saw what was happening, he watched as Shiro crumbled and the flickering flame of his defiance went out in a fitful tuft of black smoke. “Don’t give up yet, Shiro. This isn’t over.”  
  
“I’m not...” The lad paused, his gaze sliding off to the side and away from Ichigo’s again. “I’m just... I’m tired.” He paused, took a slow, shallow breath. “Grimmjow’s right. It would be easier for me ta just...accept it. I can’t do anythin’ ta change what’s happenin’, so...and Grimmjow’s not like this ta the others, only ta me...I-I don’t think...maybe he’s not really so bad. Maybe...it’s just me. If I act like them he wouldn’t-”  
  
Ichigo couldn’t help it. Fire lit in the pit of his stomach at the slave’s words. He knew what was happening, he’d feared this from the very start, but he still couldn’t accept it, and he couldn’t help his reactions to it. He surged forward and his hands came up, grasping around bare shoulders in a gentle but firm grip. He grabbed hold of the slave as he surged to his feet, hovering over the seated male. “NO. Shiro. He is not right. He is doing this to you, he’s making you think these things. He’s getting into your head.”  
  
Shiro shrank back, breathing in near panicked little gasps. His eyes went impossibly wide and his hands braced against the detective’s arms but he didn’t move against Ichigo. He didn’t even make to defend himself or fight back. He’d been conditioned not to, whether he physically could or not.  
  
“You know he’s not a good man, you know what he’s doing is wrong.” Ichigo continued, his voice steely. A simmering anger showed in his tone, but it wasn’t directed at the lad he spoke to. “He took advantage of you, he kidnapped you and drugged you. Shiro, this is not ok. None of this is ok.”  
  
The slave trembled in Ichigo’s grasp. In the back of his mind, despite the welling panic, he knew Ichigo would never hurt him but fear and nervousness still coursed through his body. Even so, he still heard what the detective said. A quiet, pitiful little whimper crawled up his throat as he stared up into burning, brown eyes. They didn’t burn the same way Grimmjow’s did. They burned hot, not cold. But hot in a molten way, not an all consuming way. Not in a way that promised punishment.  
  
“You can’t stop fighting now, Shiro.” Ichigo didn’t relinquish his hold of the man, but he didn’t push or pull or seek to hurt him in anyway. It was potentially devastating to the lad’s already broken and crumbling mindset, seeing that he so feared and hated foreign touch after all he’d been through, but Ichigo’s hold was merely something for Shiro to anchor to, something real and tangible for him to feel. “We are so close. You can help me put an end to all this Shiro, I can get you out of here.”   
  
“I-I can’t...” Shiro whimpered, his distorted voice watery and quiet and barely there. He couldn’t fight anymore. He couldn’t hold on any longer. He just had nothing left.  
  
“Yes, you can. It’s almost over...” Ichigo practically pleaded, his voice much softer this time, but just as adamant. “You’re strong, Shiro, you can do this.”  
  
Golden, inhuman eyes squeezed shut as Shiro bared his teeth in an expression that spoke of horrible pain too vast to be physical and of utter loss. A broken, raw sound choked from between his clenched teeth as a single tear streaked his features.  
  
Ichigo’s firm grip loosened as he watched.  
  
“I-I-I...” Shiro didn’t even know what he was trying to say, so completely lost in every sense of the word. He shook his head in a slow motion and reopened his eyes to stare up at the detective with expressive, beseeching and watery orbs. There was too much warring in his gaze to put a name to any one thing. “Ple-please...”   
  
Ichigo was certain that he was trying to ask the detective to release him, to quit touching him, and the fingers wrapped around the slave’s shoulders loosened further. But that wasn’t what came from Shiro’s lips next.  
  
“I d-don’t...I can’t...” Shiro struggled with his words, with what he was trying to say, with what he needed. He struggled with his own, warring thoughts, stuck between knowing the detective was right and thinking that maybe Grimmjow was right. His mind told him one thing, and his common sense another and all of it was smudged and beginning to blur. There were no clear lines drawn across the landscape of his mind, not any more.  “What’s happenin’ ta me?” He half whispered, voice quiet but oh so raw, a look of lost helplessness on his ashen features. “H-help me, Ichigo...I-”  
  
The detective pulled the broken lad against his chest and wrapped his arms protectively around the slave. He buried his face in pale hair and closed his eyes. “Anything, Shiro, I’ll do anything.” He whispered.  
  
Too worn down and broken to do much else, Shiro simply leaned against him and accepted the hold. He stared unblinkingly at nothing, his gaze as tired and done as the rest of him and, head resting against Ichigo’s chest, he listened to the steady, strong beat of the detective’s heart as silent tears rolled down his bruised cheeks.  
  
The call Ichigo had been waiting for came two days later.  
  
It was late, well after the typical work day was done and night had descended upon the city. Ichigo sat awake in his bedroom, legs dangling over the edge of his bed as he rested his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through orange locks. Sleep wasn’t an easy thing for the detective these nights. His thoughts centered too closely around the slave he’d been visiting. The thought of what Shiro was mostly likely going through at that very moment made him feel ill and left him with yet another sleepless night.  
  
Sitting on the nightstand beside him, where he’d left it specifically in the hopes that this call would come through sooner rather than later, his phone began ringing. Ichigo jumped, jerking from his thoughts, before he half dove across the bedspread and snagged the buzzing phone from it’s perch. He connected the call as he brought it to his ear, “Hello?”  
  
“Kurosaki. The warrant’s been cleared. Meet us at the station.”  
  
Ichigo scrambled from the edge of the bed and to his closet. He began pulling out the police issued uniform that he almost never wore, phone still glued to his ear. “Now? We’re going tonight?”  
  
“Yes. We’re heading out before Jaegerjaquez has the chance to catch wind that a warrant for his arrest and the seizure of his slaves has been issued.”  
  
Not that he’d really needed a reason, but it seemed like a good one to Ichigo.   
  
Before he could say anything, the commissioner spoke again. “And make sure you go to the station first, Kurosaki. You’re not going in there alone tonight. You’ll be in an unmarked, armored car like the rest of us.”  
  
“Yes sir,” Ichigo agreed, cradling the phone between shoulder and ear as he struggled into his pants. “I’ll be there in ten.”  
  
“Good. We move within the hour.”  
  
Less than twenty minutes later, Ichigo sat in the commissioner’s office, surrounded by the men and women that had been selected as part of his elite team. The lights in the rest of the station were dark, only the hallway and the front lobby illuminated through out the night. The office they gathered in was hushed, tense. This would not be like other raids. The man they prepared to incarcerate was considered to be among the most powerful and dangerous in all the city, at the very top of their most wanted list, and they knew he would not go quietly.  
  
Ichigo and the commissioner did a quick refresher, running the team through the layout of the estate again. They went over procedures and fail safes and discussed worst case scenarios. Back up plans were briefed through, as well as the swift withdrawal of the team and arrested persons but everyone in that room already knew what they were doing. They all knew the drill, knew how things were supposed to run. They also knew how easy it was for things to go wrong.  
  
The potential threat that was the magic-user was discussed. Yoruichi, who had done some digging of her own out on the streets, had very little she could add to their small wealth of knowledge about the mysterious hybrid. The only knew thing she’d gathered was that he’d apparently, years ago, been a small time dealer of his own. Before he’d been recruited by Jaegerjaquez, it was said that he’d sold organs on the black market. But it was all just talk, she had no proof.   
  
They also briefed over what Jaegerjaquez would likely have in his arsenal, aside from simple man power and of course his magic-user. The building was large and that presented problems all of it’s own. The task force would be bringing dogs with them.  
  
A little over half an hour after Ichigo arrived, the team embarked in unmarked, armored vehicles. The team of police dogs barked and whined like all dogs do when excited, but as the doors to the transport van they were loaded into shut, they snapped their jaws and growled in low sounds that showed their handlers that they too were ready. Ichigo’s team, dog handlers included, was quick, serious.  
  
Falling in line behind the police unit, an ambulance followed at a sedate pace, lights off and unhurried so as to not draw attention. More would be on standby, ready to be called to quick response if need be.  
  
Ichigo loaded into a car with the commissioner and Yoruichi. He checked the clip of his gun as the car pulled away from the station. Then his watch, and he knew where he would be heading as soon as the estate was breached.  
  
The drive across the city took nearly forty minutes. Nearly an hour of heavy quiet, of nothing but the dark of night closing in around them. Despite the lengthy drive, the tense hush never lifted. Nor did the grave alertness that each man and woman held.  
  
They pulled the vehicles as close as they dared to the large estate and, with no signal needing to be given, the team began their raid. Yoruichi smiled as she pushed a button on a small but very handy little device. Together with the commissioner and Ichigo, the three led the charge.  
  
Deeper within the estate, Grimmjow curled his lip and visibly flinched as harsh static filled his hearing through the previously quiet, calm feed that linked him to his secretary. He frowned and reached up, adjusting the nearly impossible to see ear piece he wore almost constantly. When his toying earned him nothing but continued static, he pulled it from it’s place.  
  
Not happy about the dropped feed, he left his office and headed deeper into the estate. He turned down the hall and took a left, before stopping at a closed door. He paused, knowing he’d the man he looked for despite that the room was supposed to be off limits to anyone other than himself. He arched a brow, before barging through the unlocked door. “Szayel.”  
  
Yellow eyes, dark and swirling, turned in his direction as Szayel looked up from the young woman he had laying under him. The girl moaned an exaggerated sound as the doctor used her to pleasure himself. Laying sprawled upon the bed next to the pink haired man and his current partner, one of the male slaves from the hold was passed out, showing the obvious signs of being worn out and used. Grimmjow rolled his eyes, unsurprised that Szayel had dragged the two to the room the slave trader usually reserved for himself. Again.   
  
“Yes...Grimmjow?” Szayel said between thrusts, never faltering as he looked the big human over in a slow, slightly unnerving glance before refocusing on vivid blue eyes.  
  
“Hurry up.” Grimmjow held up the small ear piece. “Can’t figure out what’s wrong with the damn thing. This is the first time I’ve had trouble with this new one of yours.”  
  
Seeing that his business partner had need of him, Szayel flashed the human a smile before turning back toward the lass he was busy with. Looking down into large, wheat grey eyes, he pressed the tip of his finger to her forehead and said, “Sorry my dear, I’ll be back for you.” A moment later, Nelliel fell unconscious below him.  
  
The blue haired slave trader grunted as he watched. “You’ve been practicing.”  
  
“I have.” Szayel agreed rather proudly, “Though it’s still a tricky process. It works best if I already know how the person’s mind works.”  
  
A grin split Grimmjow’s features as his doctor pulled out of the slave and straightened from the bed. The slim, nude male casually made his way toward opposite side of the room, where his clothing had been left, and dressed as Grimmjow spoke. “To think, when you first started working for me, you couldn’t even cast on living creatures. Now you can break, fix or knock ‘em out.”  
  
Szayel chuckled a silvery sound as he pulled on his shirt and made to follow the other man as they left the room. The door was closed behind them, but left unlocked: neither slave would dare go anywhere if they woke back up, though without Szayel’s help, that was unlikely. Turning back in the direction Grimmjow had come, Szayel took the offered ear piece and began a quick inspection. After only a moment of both physically and magically toying with it, he hummed a small sound. “It seems to be in working order. I’m really not sure why it’s not receiving.”  
  
“Something wrong with the other end, you think?”  
  
“Could be.” The doctor shrugged a motion that was far more elegant than most could make such a thing seem.  
  
They continued down the hall, Szayel passing the device back to his employer. Grimmjow paused at his office door to lock the room, while Szayel continued toward the front rotunda entrance to see if he couldn’t figure out what was going on with the secretary’s matching device. As he approached where the hallway opened up and spilled into the rounded front lobby however, he froze, yellow eyes widening slightly as several, obviously loaded guns swung in his direction. Off to the side of the large, open space, the woman that normally sat behind the front desk was already handcuffed and laying face down on the ground.  
  
Szayel slowly rose his hands, a small, somewhat rye smile tugging at his lips. A few meters behind him and still out of sight from the rotunda, Grimmjow paused, blue brows furrowing as he watched the doctor go rigid and slowly raise his arms. If that wasn’t a telling stance, he didn’t know what was.  
  
First response being indignant anger at the idea of anyone entering his establishment and threatening his business and his partners, Grimmjow growled a low sound and fully prepared to join the doctor. However, Szayel’s greeting halted him in his tracks and sent him rather quickly, though unhappily, in the opposite direction.  
  
“Why, Mr. Kurosaki, today isn’t your regularly scheduled time.” The pink haired halfbreed said, his voice too calm and too cool. He knew Grimmjow stood not far away, and he knew he couldn’t allow his partner to be caught up so unaware in all this. “And you’ve brought friends with you, as well.”  
  
Standing in the rotunda, several armed police outfitted with body armor and all, made a quick sweep of the immediate area. The secretary had been their first arrest, obviously, since the woman was the first person to be seen. When they’d entered, her eyes had widened slightly, and she’d greeted “Mr. Kurosaki” and his “friends.”  
  
So when the doctor came into view and greeted Ichigo and his supposed friends as well, in the same way the secretary had, they all knew something was up. Clearly, even though communications had been cut within the estate, they still had some form of code to relay what was going on.  
  
“Where is he?” The commissioner demanded, his voice not quite a yell, but stern and aggressive all the same. He leveled his gun at the doctor and edged closer. The pink hair Ichigo had described was unmistakable and he knew he was looking at the potentially dangerous magic-user. “Where’s Jaegerjaquez?”  
  
“Hm, well, I last saw him in his office. I presume he’s still there trying to figure out why all his audio and video surveillance isn’t working.” Szayel said, a small, ever present tilt to his thin lips. Even standing exposed and under the aim of skilled marksmen, he seemed confident, calm and unworried, like nothing they had could possibly touch him.  
  
The commissioner waved forward two of his men and together, the three edged closer to the doctor and the hallway he’d just come from.  
  
Szayel readily gave them directions without prompt. “It’s just down this hall, sixth door on the left. Seems his lucky number isn’t so very luck this night, is it?” He laughed a short, chiming sound and a light, carefree shrug.   
  
He was confident in giving them the slave trader’s supposed location because this had all been discussed when he’d first taken the job. Should this sort of situation ever arise, Grimmjow was always in his office, the sixth door on the left. In truth, his office was on the right. The door on the left was a decoy room and the door automatically locked, impossible to open from the inside. It wouldn’t likely take the officers long to break out, but it bought the slave trader a few extra minutes. And while the officers struggled and searched the wrong section of the estate, Grimmjow would be busy making his way through back, rarely used hallways towards the very opposite side of the estate, where he could make good his escape. It seemed for once the big human’s paranoia would pay off.  
  
Yellow eyes found and anchored onto the orange haired man that had been visiting the establishment for the past several weeks. There was a cold promise there, as well as something sly and slimy. No trace of unease could be found, nothing to make the magic-user’s confidence waver. His small smile never wavered either, even as the police officers neared him, guns drawn, aimed on him, and handcuffs in hand.  
  
Ichigo glared right back at the doctor for a moment, orange brows furrowed. He didn’t like that look...everything about it was wrong. Dropping the unnerving gaze and turning, he pulled away from his team, taking off across the rotunda and towards the stairs. The others drew weapons and spread out, systematically checking the rest of the surrounding areas for more nearby staff.  
  
“Ichigo!” The commissioner hissed after him. “Get back here! We have a procedure to follow.”  
  
“So follow it.” Ichigo grit out, not looking at the man as he took the stairs two and three at a time and disappeared to the second floor. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wade through the rooms and hallways, scouring the place for Jaegerjaquez like the others of his team. He had to find Shiro. Jaegerjaquez wasn’t standing in front of him in cuffs, meaning he was technically still loose in the large estate. To Ichigo, that meant Shiro was still more than vulnerable, still in danger. Ichigo was certain that if given the chance, the slave trader wouldn’t think twice about eliminated the pale slave so that the lad couldn’t continue to be a source of information against him.  
  
He made it to the top of the staircase and tore off down the hall, drawing his gun as he ran in a stealthy, slightly crouched way. Glancing at the numbers on the otherwise unmarked doors, he only slowed when he made it to the one he was looking for. The detective had no real way of knowing if the lad he sought out would be in the room or in the hold, but in order to get to the slave quarters, he had to go past the room Shiro was usually chained up in, so he figured he’d find out on his way by. They needed to extract the pale slave as quickly as possible. Jaegerjaquez wasn’t stupid, he’d put the pieces together. If he found out what was going on, caught wind of the raid before they’d managed to secure and subdue the big man, he’d make the connection that Ichigo, who’d become one of his supposed regulars, was a cop. Ichigo just couldn’t run the risk of him finding Shiro first.  
  
As Ichigo came to a halt outside the lad’s usual room, he stepped close and pressed his ear to the door, but of course the room was essentially sound proof to keep the halls peaceful to other visitors. A determined scowl on his handsome features, the detective pounded his fist against the door. The force he used rattled the door in it’s frame.   
  
“Shiro?” He called, nearly yelling in his effort to make sure that if the lad was within, he’d hear. Then he paused and waited, before calling again and trying the doorknob.  
  
Fire light in his gut, anger boiling like acid in his stomach as he heard the faintest of calls back. The sound was just barely audible, despite that his ear was pressed against the wood of the door. But the sound, a single, desperate and muffled word, was there and it was watery and distorted in a way that only one man’s voice could produce.  
  
That small, barely distinguishable calling of his name was enough to make Ichigo see red. “Stay back, Shiro!” He warned, taking a step back of his own. Gun still drawn, he leaned his weight back on one leg and brought up his other. His heel planted right beside the door knob, as much strength and weight as he could possibly drive into the kick backing it.  
  
The door shuttered. Wood splintered. Ichigo reared back and repeated his kick.   
  
When the lock broke and the door flew inward, he stumbled through and into Shiro’s room. Brown eyes instantly locked on the pale slave, widening in mixed disbelief and terror. Sure, he’d heard about the things the lad went through. Shiro had told him horror stories. But he’d never seen it for himself.  
  
Chained up like usual, the heavy leather collar ringing his pale throat, Shiro was laid out on the bed. Part of the chain had been wound around his pale wrists before being looped further around the headboard. It kept him from being able to fully straighten his arms and so kept him on his stomach and high up along the bed, unable to get leverage to really move much. What looked like a belt had been jammed between his teeth and, held by the client currently using the poor lad, kept Shiro’s head yanked backward and his back arched, backside raised and all but presented. A tallish man knelt behind Shiro, pants around his knees and the hand not holding the belt gripping slim hips harshly enough to whiten the knuckles of long fingers.   
  
Shiro’s eyes were wide, his brows furrowed and the longer Ichigo stood in stunned silence, the more it looked like tears were beginning to well in the corners of inverted orbs. The client looked shocked, to say the least.  
  
Brown eyes narrowed dangerously as a fearsome snarl crept across boyish features, rage twisting his expression and coloring his words. “Get off him!” Ichigo growled out, gun swinging toward the client. His chest heaved with his anger, jaw clenched tight even as he issued forth his commands. “Get the fuck off him and get on the ground.”  
  
The client scrambled back and, pants still around his knees, thudded to the ground in an ungraceful heap when he tried to stand. Ichigo rounded the bed, never taking his eyes off the man. Without a word, the look on his face enough, he backed the man further away from the bed and toward the window on the far side of the room.   
  
“Get down.” He snarled again, “Hands on your head.” Then, in a voice that was a little too calm, he added, “If you move, I swear to god I will shoot you and have you arrested for rape and aiding in the prostitution of illegally obtained persons.”  
  
Through out the whole of the little exchange, Shiro watched, his eyes wide as he panted from a mix of exertion from what the client had been doing to him and from fear and trauma and the sudden, unexpected arrival of the detective. A relief he never thought he’d feel flooded his system and as Ichigo finally turned back toward him, he choked out a sob around the belt that had been wedged into his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut as hot tears finally began streaking his features, he tipped his head forward to hide his face against the mattress below him, bare shoulders shaking and body trembling.  
  
Ichigo didn’t re-holster his gun, but he set it down as he rushed over to the bed and the slave still tied up there. The first thing he did was pull the knot in the belt loose enough to pull it from Shiro’s mouth. Then he moved further toward the head of the bed and began carefully, gently unbinding the lad’s wrists, working the chain until he figured out how the client had managed to use it to tie the poor young man up.  
  
With his hands freed, Shiro began pulling himself more upright. He winced, stifling a pained, breathy sound as he moved. The small sound still caught the detective’s attention though, and Ichigo moved so that he could help the lad off the bed and to his feet.  
  
Like he had the few other times, he gave Shiro warning before so much as touching the abused man. It was only after the mixbreed gave a hesitant nod that Ichigo gently settled a hand on his shoulder and wrapped the other around one of Shiro’s hands. He guided the pale lad up, letting Shiro use him for support after the most recent abuse he’d obviously gone through.  
  
When Shiro was on his feet and steady enough, Ichigo pulled a knife from his belt and flicked it open. He reached up and turned the collar wrapped around the slave’s pale throat a bit, inspecting it and trying to decide how best to go about cutting Shiro loose without hurting the lad.  
  
He was pulled from his inspection when Shiro shifted, leaning over to one side slightly and extending a pale arm. The detective looked up, then over to see the slave holding his gun, pale face a little too blank but his jaw clenched painfully tight. The weapon was aimed toward the client that had previously been using the lad, Shiro’s pale hand shaking just barely.  
  
Ichigo frowned, swallowing harshly. He had no speech about how Shiro didn’t want to do it, about how he would regret it later, because Ichigo knew nothing would ever convince the abused man of that. Everything Shiro had gone through -more than a year’s worth of physical and psychological torture, of rape, of pain and fear and thinks meant solely to destroy a person- it all seemed like more than enough justification for what Shiro was obviously contemplating. It might have even helped to relieve some of what Shiro was feeling; the outrage, the terror, the helplessness and violation.  
  
But nor could Ichigo just let the young man kill another. As twisted and disgusting as it was, the client hadn’t really been doing anything that went against the law. Prostitution was legal, as was owning another person, as were brothels like the one Jaegerjaquez owned and ran. The man probably didn’t know that the supposed slaves the blue haired trader rented out weren’t legal, that they were supposed to be free, innocent people.  
  
The detective carefully, gently settled his hand across Shiro’s own, but he didn’t try to pull the gun away, or try to relock the safety. He didn’t even try to make the aim waver, and draw it in another direction. He simply shook his head in a slight motion, brown eyes soft and wide with understanding as they searched Shiro’s gaze.  
  
“Don’t do this, Shiro...” Ichigo said softly, “Let me and my team handle him. Let us take care of this... Let me finally get you out of here.”  
  
Shiro hesitated, gaze pulling away from the detective and traveling over toward the still kneeling client again. There was only one thing he wanted more than he wanted the man that had used him to suffer, and that was what Ichigo had offered him from the start; his freedom back, an end to his nightmare, and an end to Grimmjow. He closed his eyes for a short moment, before nodding just slightly and lowering the gun. He handed the weapon back to Ichigo, and the detective holstered it and picked up where he’d left off.  
  
He moved to stand behind Shiro, deciding that cutting the collar off from behind would be the safest course of action, so that the sharp blade was as far away from the soft flesh of the lad’s throat as possible. Just as he slipped the blade under the collar, dull side toward pale skin and the sharp side pointed outward, toward himself and of course the collar, Shiro’s head whipped around toward the gaping doorway. Ichigo followed his line of sight just as a deep rumble announced that they had company.  
  
“Mr. Kurosaki,” Grimmjow growled out in a remarkable mix of polite businessman, and scathing anger, “you are no longer welcome in my establishment.”  
  
Blue eyes lit with seething fire as the slave trader reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun of his own. Ichigo dropped the knife, eyes going wide, and yanked his own weapon from it’s holster at his hip as the first bullet singed through the air.  
  
Ichigo cringed at the loud echo, but the bullet had missed him. Chaos erupted. Shouts from down the hall rang through the corridor, a sound that could have been the doctor’s voice as well. Jaegerjaquez curled his lip in a vicious sneer that bared white teeth and looked more animal than man. More gunshots, but this time it was from Ichigo’s team as they rushed up the stairs and down the hall, shouting orders for the slave trader to drop his weapon.  
  
Grimmjow did no such thing. He re-aimed and was about to take a second shot when a bullet zipped through air, just barely missing his shoulder, to embed in the doorframe beside him. He rumbled a curse, ducking backward, and rolled from Ichigo’s view to disappear down the hall in the opposite direction as the detective’s team had been coming from. His footsteps were silent as he ran, tearing through familiar hallways and back into the depths of his estate.  
  
Ichigo bent in a rush and snagged the knife again, in a hurry to cut the mixblooded lad free. He grunted, gritting his teeth as he re-worked the blade under the tight collar again and began slicing at the sturdy leather. He was as careful as possible while he tried not to hurt the young man and Shiro held as still as he was capable of being, a slight tremble to his figure as he clenched his hands together in front of himself. His breathing came in slightly elevated, strained pants. In his focused and rushed state, Ichigo didn’t really take notice and automatically chocked it up to adrenaline from all that was happening.  
  
Members of the detective’s team sprinted down the hall, passed the room they were in as they shouted orders both to each other and to the fleeing suspect. Yoruichi paused to lean into the room. She glanced at Ichigo and the slave that had become their main source of information against Jaegerjaquez and his dealings, yellow eyes widening slightly at the sight of the young man. “Ichigo. Hurry, get him out of here.” She commanded in a slightly hushed voice.  
  
“Working on it.” Ichigo grit out, nearly finished with the stubborn and well made collar. They’d certainly done their best to be sure Shiro wouldn’t escape without aid.  
  
In front of him, facing the woman hybrid, Shiro glanced up at her with glassy eyes. His jaw clenched, teeth bared for a short moment like he was going to say something as he breathed through flared nostrils. But he stayed quiet, didn’t force words out, even as his hands trembled where he held them pressed tightly against his stomach.  
  
Yoruichi seemed to understand, and she backed out of the room but didn’t go far, only crossing the hall. Reaching up, she tugged the mic to the radio that connected her to the officers they had stationed outside of the estate closer to her full lips as she spoke in a quick, quiet voice. “Prep an ambulance, but don’t bring in the paramedics yet. Target is still loose.”  
  
The last bit of stubborn leather finally gave way and the collar fell free to thunk to the ground at Shiro’s feet. Ichigo, in a guiding motion that was at once gentle and firm, grabbed the lad’s arm as he hurried passed Shiro and toward the door, gun drawn again. Yoruichi was still close, which meant that the immediate area was safe enough, but there was little telling when and where Jaegerjaquez would show up again and they now knew the man was armed.  
  
Yoruichi stepped up close to Ichigo, her eyes still locked on the pale halfbreed though. “Hurry, get him out of here, Ichigo. Quickly.”  
  
The detective nodded and headed back in the direction he’d come. The area had already been secured, and would likely be his safest route back through the estate and toward the vehicles awaiting out front.  
  
They were nearly to the landing of the stairs when the lad Ichigo was guiding began slowing down. Shiro finally choked out a sound, unable to keep going for much longer. His single word was pained and strengthless. “I-Ichi...”  
  
Ichigo paused, brows furrowing at the rough sound to the lad’s voice, like Shiro couldn’t catch the breath needed for proper speech. As he stopped and turned around to face the pale man, Shiro stumbled forward before his legs gave out and he collapsed. Reacting on his training and instinct, Ichigo wrapped his arms around the lad, holding him up as Shiro fell against him. His eyes went wide as he took note of the blood slicking pale fingers and the small tickle of brilliant red that dribbled from the corner of colorless lips.  
  
“No...Shiro, no...” Ichigo shook his head in denial as the lad sagged against him. Jaegerjaquez’s shot hadn’t missed. It just hadn’t been aimed at the man he’d been talking to. “Shiro! Shiro, stay up, ok? Stay with me, look at me.” He fought down panic as the lad panted in short gasps against his chest.  
  
Ichigo hesitated, inexperienced in matters like this. But he couldn’t let his hesitation and his worry, his fear, make him pause for long. He had made a promise to save Shiro and he would hold to that. He wouldn’t let Shiro die, especially not here, not within the walls of the hell he’d been locked in for more than a year.   
  
He bent slightly, hooking one arm around the backs of the slave’s bare legs. He wrapped his other around colorless shoulders and grunted as he straightened, Shiro’s head lolling weakly against his shoulder as brilliant red smeared across bare, pale flesh with sickly contrast.   
  
“Hold on, Shiro...just a little longer. I’ll get you out of here.” He promised quietly as inverted eyes rolled back and Shiro’s hands fell away from the gunshot wound marring the toned planes of his abdomen. His body went slack as Ichigo carried him down the hall.


	9. Chapter 9

**••• The estate : 26 hours ago •••**  
  
Cops swarmed the the large building. Szayel, knowing Grimmjow was already on the run, smirked a sly little expression as he watched Mr. Kurosaki scramble up the stairs and out of sight. He knew exactly where the man was headed. The doctor had to admit, he really hadn’t suspected Kurosaki to be an undercover detective. He and Grimmjow had checked the man out and found nothing of interest, even their contacts in the northern and eastern stations hadn’t been able to come up with a cop with bright orange hair.   
  
Grimmjow had been suspicious, but not enough so to risk being wrong and so moving against a simple civilian, a customer. It would have been bad business, after all, and bad for his reputation had it turned out that the orange haired regular really had been a simple guest. The young man had done well, commendable even.  
  
Little smirk still tugging at the corners of his thin lips, Szayel brought his hands up in front of himself, careful not to make any sudden movements that would end up getting him shot. Then, arching a brow, he began a slow, eerie and mocking clap. “Bravo, gentlemen. Bravo.” He congratulated as handcuffs were pulled out by one of the cops nearest him.  
  
The pink haired man’s entire demeanor set the rest of the task force on edge. There was something not right about the man, something slithering and snakelike. His smirk only turned to a full blown grin, tinged with madness, as the police approaching him began reading him his rights.  
  
Compliant enough, Szayel allowed himself to be handcuffed. The officers were wary of coming near him and that amused the effeminate man to no end. No doubt Mr. Kurosaki had told them of his skill set and talents.  
  
While most of the task force spread out and began scouring the estate for the missing slave trader, the doctor was led out front to an awaiting, unmarked police cruiser. They locked the backdoor as the halfbreed slid into place willingly, hands held by metal cuffs behind his back. He smiled as he watched them round the vehicle, one climbing into the driver’s seat while the other took the passenger seat.  
  
“You know,” He said in a polite, conversational little voice once all the doors were closed and the engine rumbled to life. Yellow eyes panned around the vehicle in unnerving, clinical sweeps, taking note of locks, the controls for the various radios, the windows, everything there was to see. Hidden behind his back, the long fingers of one hand brushed the lock of the cuff around the opposite wrist. “now I’m known as a doctor of sorts, but it used to be that I excelled in casting on nonliving things. My preferred subjects were dead humans -softer builds than hollows, you see, easier to cut into- but I was quite proficient with inanimate objects as well.” As he spoke, knowing he was putting the cops on edge, the car was put into gear and began pulling from the estate’s lot, no doubt headed toward the station and a jail cell. “Couldn’t very well get to a human carcass without knowing how to get through a few locks, after all.”  
  
With the last of his words, his smile grew wider and the cuffs fell free to land on the seat behind his back. Without hesitation and not bothering to hide that he was freed, he brought his hands around in front of himself and rubbed at his wrists for a moment before flattening his palms against the thick, reinforced glass that separated criminals from the driver during transport.   
  
“Casting on living things is hard work, very complicated.” The doctor continued to explain. He hummed a short sound in what seemed like thought as the cop riding passenger spun around in his seat, automatically starting to draw his gun. “But casting on something manmade is simple. Predictable. There is only one way for it to react to the magic.”  
  
Szayel tsked and shook his head slightly, before curling his cold fingers against the glass. A single, thin crack spread vertically through the very center, right between his hands. Then, seemingly without warning, it shattered outward, spraying into the front of the car. The cop squeezed the trigger as he jolted backward in an automatic attempt to cover himself from the shards. The driver slammed on the breaks, jerking the wheel around.  
  
The pink haired man was thrown forward as the vehicle came to a sudden stop, the front end crunching against the corner of the brick building that neighbored the estate. Szayel braced himself with his hands, the dashboard a very solid and painful thing to collide with. He grit his teeth as bone gave under the force and momentum.  
  
Then the car rocked back, metal groaning in protest, before it fell still. Beside the doctor,  where he’d landed in the middle of the front seat, one cop sat slumped at an awkward angle, blood smearing the side of his face and dripping from his hairline. On Szayel’s other side, the driver groaned and belatedly began reaching for his gun.   
  
“Ah ah.” Szayel took it from him and pressed the barrel to the man’s head. Blood and brain matter splattered against what was left of the driver side window. Reaching across, the magic-user pushed the door open and pushed the body out before crawling across the seat and pulling himself from the wreckage that used to be the police cruiser. It wasn’t a fun task and he had no desire to ever do so again.  
  
Using the car’s smashed hood, he pulled himself upright and stepped over the dead driver, left arm cradled close to his body as he looked around. Between the gunshots, screech of breaks and the deafening sound of the crash, police were already sprinting towards him from nearer the estate.   
  
Szayel sighed, spun, and took off in the opposite direction as he settled cold fingers along the purpling flesh of his broken arm. He bared his teeth as he cut a thin line down it’s length and, with trembling fingers, began unsteadily digging around to find the break as he ran. The sharp burn of malicious magic and unnatural probing stole his breath and he suddenly realized why the slaves always squirmed so badly when he preformed deeper healing than simple cuts and gashes. No wonder the mixblooded lad had screamed...  
  
No matter. He had more pressing things to worry about at the moment: the broken arm and the police chasing after him being only a fraction of his problems at the moment, never mind if he actually managed to get away. But if nothing else, at least his little stunt would by his human partner more time to get away.  
  
 **••• A hospital on the west side of town : present •••**  
  
The quiet sounds around him were slow to register at first; silence giving way to the subtle sounds of movement, of a quiet pulse, the puff of air. The barest hint of a groan crawled from his dry throat, but he felt it vibrating from his lungs more than he actually heard it in the space around him. Shiro took a deep breath, cringing at how the extra movement made fire flash through his torso and froze the air in his lungs. He let it out in a controlled stream.  
  
Swallowing thickly, Shiro’s pale hands tightened as the feeling of smooth fabric registered under hhis fingers. It felt different than it normally did, like the sheets on his cot had been changed while he’d been asleep, but that was impossible. The room smelled different too, more sterile, less...cold and dead.  
  
As he pried his eyes open and bright, sterile lighting assaulted his sluggishly returning consciousness, everything became hyper sensitive. He panicked as he opened his eyes to find someone hovering over him, to see several people surrounding him in a small room he’d never seen before. He certainly wasn’t in his cage, nor in his room and there were hands on him, moving across his body. Tubes connected him to machines and the steady beep of the monitor beside his bed was getting louder, faster with his panic.  
  
Shiro, almost the moment he awakened to his surroundings, began scrambling to get away. Odd, inverted eyes wide, he bared his teeth and pushed at the hands trying to hold him down, trying to grab at him. He didn’t hear the soothing words telling him where he was or what was happening. Nor did he notice as they took on an urgent feel, trying to calm him down, keep his laying down so he couldn’t hurt himself further. All he knew was that he had no idea where he was, there were too many people and they were all new, all trying to touch him, and he wasn’t chained up or drugged.  
  
Seated half asleep in a chair that had been dragged into the hallway, Ichigo jolted, nearly toppling from the uncomfortable furniture as something clanked across the closed hospital room with a metallic sound. Orange brows furrowing, he stood, eyes directed at the closed door across from him, and debated on what he should do. Surely everything was alright though, Shiro was in the hands of trained professionals.  
  
But when a distorted, watery voice yelped and called out with frightened words, Ichigo dashed across the hallway and threw the door open. Shiro was awake finally, and had managed to tumble from the bed. He had pressed himself up against the far wall, his features twisted with fright as he struggled against the doctors trying to calm him down and guide him back to his bed. They were going about it all wrong though. You couldn’t just grab hold of and restrain a traumatized person like that and it angered Ichigo to see as Shiro began nearly begging for them to just leave him alone.  
  
“Hey, hey! Back up.” Ichigo demanded, crossing the small room in a hurry and pushing himself between the abused male and the doctors trying to help him. He knew they were only trying to help. He understood that they only meant well, but it was obvious Shiro didn’t know that. “Give him some space.”   
  
He held his hand out, physically pushing the medical staff back to arm’s length before they finally began backing up on their own. When the few personnel finally laid off, doing what the detective said, Ichigo turned back to where Shiro half stood, half huddled behind him. Pale fingers found the fabric of his shirt in an almost desperate hold as the injured man turned his wide, unsure gaze to the only familiar face in the room.  
  
“It’s alright, Shiro,” Ichigo soothed, gently pulling the lad into a more upright position. Shiro winced, a strained sound crawling up his throat as his hands dropped from Ichigo’s clothing to settle protectively along his half bandaged abdomen. “you’re in the hospital... These people wont hurt you. They’re only here to help.”  
  
Nostrils flared to take in needed oxygen, Shiro’s gaze drifted passed Ichigo and scanned the doctor and her assistants, where they stood watching him. He swallowed, jaw clenching, and brought his gaze back to the detective. “H-hospital...” He muttered in a somewhat hoarse voice, like he was trying to remember. He mimicked the detective’s motions when Ichigo nodded in confirmation. Then he looked down at himself, wincing as he carefully pulled at some of the half done, fresh bandages covering his abdomen. “B’coz I was shot...”  
  
Ichigo nodded again, his motions and demeanor soft. He was careful, his actions slow, as he reached out and settled his hand along the lad’s arm so that he could lead him back to the bed he was supposed to be resting in. Golden eyes glanced up at him with the touch, but Shiro didn’t protest or pull away. He’d initiated contact when Ichigo had first came into the room, and Ichigo was beginning to realize that if Shiro touched first, it was like an ok, like a way to show that he was comfortable enough with the contact of whoever he’d touched.  
  
Shiro allowed himself to be led back to the hospital bed, his eyes coasting back over toward the staff with a wary glance. He hissed a low, uncomfortable sound as the detective helped him lean back against the mountain of pillows piled against the bed, pain making his chest tight and squeezing his lungs. When the forced stiffness began to drain from the young man’s spine, Ichigo backed up a step and the doctor neared again so that she could continue re-bandaging the mixblooded male’s wound.  
  
Shiro didn’t appreciate it however and, still not ready for the added contact, a small sound crept up his throat as he flinched away, despite the pain that the quick jerk of movement caused him. Wide, inverted eyes darted over to watch the doctor’s every move, nervousness and unease written in every line upon the hybrid’s body.  
  
It was at that point that it really sank in for Ichigo. Just because the lad had finally escaped, had finally left the estate and it’s horrors behind, didn’t mean he’d simply left what had happened behind as well. This was something that would take time, something that Shiro would be living with for the rest of his life and it was a very traumatizing thing.  
  
“It’s ok, Shiro.” Ichigo soothed again, voice calm and quiet. He didn’t touch the lad, not until Shiro’s hand blindly reached up and wrapped pale fingers just above his wrist. Then he did, because it was ok to now. With the other hand, he pulled white hair from the abused man’s features, pushing it back behind his ear and sufficiently drawing Shiro’s attention away from the doctor. “They have to take care of your injuries.” Ichigo explained, nodding slightly. He knew Shiro already knew that. He knew the young man knew what was going on, but he reassured him anyway. “To do that, they’re going to have to come near...but I’ll stay right here while they do, ok?”  
  
Ashen brows furrowed and Shiro hesitated, but he nodded. For the entire fifteen minutes it took for the doctor to finish changing his bandaging, Shiro watched every little movement within the room. His hand was a steel vice around Ichigo’s wrist as he fought to keep his breathing even and steady. Despite that the doctor’s touch wasn’t personal nor suggestive in anyway, despite that she wore gloves and was careful to be as precise with the contact between them as was possible, it still made Shiro’s gut roil and protest.  
  
When she was done, the doctor threw her gloves in the trash and made for the door. Ichigo took a step to follow her, before turning back to the injured, bedridden man. “Will you be alright if I step out for a few minutes, Shiro?”  
  
A very small, strained smirk tugged at one corner of pale lips. Ashen features looked drawn and worn, discomfort and pain tightening the muscle of the young man’s jaw. Dark circles ringed already dark eyes, making them look sunken and almost skeletal. “M not goin’ anywhere.” Shiro mumbled in answer, trying to get comfortable. Everything hurt and as uncomfortable as he was, moving to try to fix that discomfort only made him hurt worse. He was quickly regretting his hasty reaction when he’d first awakened.  
  
“Ok. I wont be long.” Ichigo smiled down at the man before he turned and followed the doctor from the room. She waited for him in the hall, seeing and recognizing the look that told her the detective wanted a word with her. It was a look she saw plenty of in her line of work.  
  
The detective was quiet for a moment as they paused in the hall just outside of the closed door. Standing beside him, the doctor was patient, as was expected of someone in the medical field. Finally, after organizing just what it was he wanted to speak to her about, Ichigo spoke, “Ok, so...what can you tell me?”  
  
Despite that Shiro had been in the hospital’s care for more than a night, no official medical report had been filled out and handed in. There were tests to run, results to analyze and questions to ask before anything official could be recorded and handed over to the police.  
  
“Are you asking as a detective, or as the friend he clearly sees you as?”  
  
“Both.” Ichigo’s answer was unhesitant and confident.  
  
The woman nodded and seemed satisfied with the answer. “I can confirm what you already know; he was shot at close range. I’ve already sent the bullet to your superior as was requested. Sever physical trauma sustained over a long period of time. Evidence of broke and healed bones.”  
  
She ticked off a quick list of physical ailments, but Ichigo already knew all that. He’d witnessed it, seen the evidence of everything she mentioned. Ichigo simply nodded a small motion, brown eyes coasting toward the wall opposite them. “I meant... Is he going to be ok?”  
  
The doctor smiled, seeming pleased with where his concerns laid. There was an underlying sternness to her features though. “Well, he’ll certainly live. Over all, he’s not in horrible shape. A little dehydrated and he could use a few good meals, but nothing major. We’ve already got him on fluids to correct most of it.” She informed, “But he’s very severely wounded. It’s not like you see in the movies. A gunshot to the diaphragm is not something to take lightly. And at such a close range...” She shook her head slightly, but she wasn’t about to sugar coat anything. “There is a lot of vitals there; organs, blood vessels, nerves. There is a lot that needs to heal. A swift and full recovery is contingent on his cooperation with me and my nurses. We need to be able to treat him and that requires more close contact than he’s obviously comfortable with. And he needs to stay put in that bed and rest.”  
  
A grimace pulled at Ichigo’s features. He fully understood the doctor’s view on the matter, but he also understood Shiro’s and why the lad was so distrusting and fearful. “There are...complications to this case, doctor.” He told her, voice quiet in the silent hall.  
  
“I know.” The woman nodded slightly and crossed her arms over her chest. The steeliness to her stance didn’t reach her features though. Her next statement was just as quiet as Ichigo’s had been. “I’ve seen enough animals to know what kind of marks are left behind on the ones that pull against their leash the hardest... Even my nurses know those are collar marks around his neck.”  
  
Ichigo nodded in thought, but part of him was grateful that the doctor knew at least the basics of Shiro’s case. Hopefully that would help her know how to go about handling him and his reactions better. “I’ll talk to him and see if I can work something out with him.”  
  
Of course Shiro ended up agreeing that he would be alright, that he understood that the hospital staff were nothing to fear, but it was a thing easier said then done. His reactions were ingrained, learned, and even though he had been in the process of giving up before the night of the raid, now that he was out, now that he was truly safe and in good hands, they were experiences he couldn’t just forget and reactions he couldn’t just shut off. In the coming several days, he did his best to hold to what he’d promised; that he would cooperate and allow the nurses and doctors to help him and care for his injuries. But there were times when he just couldn’t help it, when panic would set in and push aside his common sense and overrule the reassurances made by the staff. For obvious reasons, two men were posted outside Shiro’s room at all times, to insure the key witness in the city’s largest investigation would remain safe during his recovery, but Shiro wasn’t familiar with them and with the investigation and case still open, Ichigo, the one person the young man seemed comfortable around, couldn’t always be present.  
  
When a nurse or the doctor would enter, and the recognizable sounds of the patient's impeding struggle would drift from the room, the guards would ready to storm the room. When Shiro’s watery voice would raise, taking on a fevered, fearful tone, they would enter and it would take both guards and multiple of the hospital’s personnel that had clearance to enter the man’s room to finally calm Shiro enough to realize where he was and what was going on. Sometimes it would take only a few minutes, other times it would take more than a half hour.  
  
As for Ichigo, the detective was as busy as ever, still gathering information for his case. And now he and the commissioner had the raided estate to comb, paper work to dig through, slave documentation to verify, phone calls to make, evidence to document, slaves to care and find living arrangements for. The list was endless. He and his team had more than enough work to keep them busy.  
  
So, three days after waking up in the hospital and making his agreement with the detective that had managed the impossible, Shiro was both happy and relieved when Ichigo dropped by to visit him in the hospital again. He turned his head, gold on black eyes darting toward the opening door, only for the forced blankness in his expression to drop and a somewhat surprised smirk to tug at pale lips. He started to lean forward, wincing and movements careful, so that he could sit up and face his visitor, but Ichigo motioned for him to stay where he was, a smile of his own on handsome features and in brown eyes.  
  
“You’re not supposed to be up and moving around quite yet.” Ichigo reminded as he stepped up to the bed’s side. He watched as Shiro gave him a sheepish shrug and gingerly leaned back against the mountain of pillows he’d been brought, but he refrained from helping the man get comfortable again.  
  
The small, bedside table that would normally hold a phone and a bible was covered in vases of flowers, a few balloons floating cheerily above all the bright colors. They had been brought by a few of the people Ichigo worked with; wishes for a swift recovery for the young man they’d all heard so much about in the past several weeks. Without Shiro and all that he’d had to endure, the mission would have failed, after all. The small gifts were the least they could do for the man.  
  
“I stopped and spoke to your doctor on my way up.” Ichigo added. He didn’t miss the small flinch to the pale hybrid’s features and the detective knew the lad must have known exactly what he would say, so he didn’t bother dragging it out or pointing out the obvious. “We talked about this, Shiro...”  
  
Ashen brows furrowed as inverted eyes left Ichigo’s gaze to land off to the side somewhere. “I know.”  
  
“The doctor and her staff have all been screened, and there’s men from my team posted outside your door.” Ichigo continued, but his voice was almost gentle, not harsh nor reprimanding, just reassuring. “You’re safe here.”  
  
“I know.” Shiro repeated. He paused, brows furrowing further as he took a deep breath before finally turning his gaze back up to match the detective’s. “I know they wont hurt me... I know they’re only helpin’ me. I b’lieve ya, and I understand...I know...but, Ichigo...” His hands fisted in the blanket covering his lap. “I can’t help it...” He said in a whisper, “I know they’re different, but sometimes it don’t matter...sometimes I can’t tell, sometimes I-I...I know, but sometimes I just...” He gave a small, helpless shrug, gaze taking on a far away look that neither Shiro nor Ichigo liked.  
  
The lost look that took over colorless features and colored lilting words made the muscle of Ichigo’s jaw tightened as he watched the abused young man struggle. This was already turning into an uphill battle and Shiro hadn’t even recovered enough to leave the hospital yet, let alone been cleared for regular, everyday life again. Some part of Ichigo wondered if that would ever happen, if Shiro would ever be well and stable enough to return to the general population, to get on with his life and start really living again. He doubted Shiro would ever be able to pick up where he’d left off, before he’d been abducted.  
  
“I’m tryin’, Ichigo...” Shiro mumbled, “I promise I’m tryin’... I don’t wanna be like this...”  
  
“I know you are, Shiro,” Ichigo nodded slightly and let a slight smile tug at one corner of his lips. “and it wont be like this forever. You’re stronger than you think, you’ll be alright, and you wont have to go through this alone. I’ll be here to help, and I know others who will too.”  
  
Shiro let a slight and watery smile settle on his features, but he didn’t say anything. The rest of Ichigo’s visit consisted of idle talk mostly. A bit of the case was discussed, but there wasn’t much Ichigo was permitted to say while the investigation was still underway and a court date had yet to be set. Most of what he was able to tell Shiro, the pale survivor could already infer, but it didn’t really matter. Ichigo’s visit as well as what he said was less to discuss the impeding trial and more to keep the lad company for a while.   
  
What he hadn’t told Shiro was that they were still frantically looking for both Dr. Szayel Aporro-Granz and Jaegerjaquez himself, that both had managed to escape after the pale young man had been rushed to the hospital. He didn’t tell him that the magic-user had managed to destroy a car and kill two trained officers, or that Jaegerjaquez had killed one man and injured three others, one of which may never walk again before they’d insured their escapes.  
  
After a couple hours, Ichigo took his leave and let Shiro get back to his rest with the promise to return again as soon as possible. When he exited the guarded room, closing the door behind him to give the recovering man his privacy and quiet, the commissioner was waiting for him in the hall.  
  
They turned and started down the patient wing side by side, but where quiet for several seconds before Ichigo finally spoke up. “Still nothing?”  
  
“Still nothing.” The commissioner confirmed. “And no word on the streets either. They’ve both either fled the city and gone into hiding, or they’re doing a damn good job at keeping people quiet. Honestly, it’s hard to say which. We’ve put out descriptions and made public the warrant for their arrests, but...”  
  
The older man trailed off and Ichigo grunted an unhappy sound of understanding. If they could just manage to find the blue haired trafficker, they had more than enough evidence to nail him. The same went for his halfbreed partner.  
  
“On the bright side, we’ve managed to prove most of the slave documentation to be fake and several of them have been reunited with family already.” Informed the commissioner, “They’ve got a lot of issues to work through, no doubt, but it’s a start. A lot of happy people, Ichigo, you’ve done well.”  
  
Ichigo nodded and thanked the man for his praise, but had other things on his mind. “What about the two that were found unconscious in the room near Jaegerjaquez’s office?”  
  
The commissioner simply shook his head and said nothing as they left the hospital.  
  
In the coming days, the western station and Ichigo’s team in specific were busy. Every inch of Jaegerjaquez’s estate was photographed and cataloged. The building was roped off and sealed away from the public, cops posted around the clock in the hopes that the slave trader would be stupid enough to return. That wasn’t the case however, and they continued to find no signs of the man or his presence in the city. It was like he’d simply vanished.  
  
Until the man in question could be found, the case would remain open and the impeding trial would remain on hold. While they searched, Yoruichi and a few from her department scoured the estate and the gathered evidence for any mention or sign that Jaegerjaquez had a higher up, someone he answered to. There was very little to be found. It seemed that most dealings were kept out of the books and very little hard evidence was left behind. What they did find contained fake names and false locations, no doubt coded in case of this very occurrence.  
  
In other words, without Jaegerjaquez, the case was at a standstill.  
  
As the days stretched into a week, other arrangements and situations needed to be discussed. Shiro wasn’t exactly up and moving around freely just yet, but he was well on his way, which begged the question; when he was well and released from the hospital, where would he go? Even if he had a home waiting for him, even if he had family or friends, the man that had kidnapped him more than a year ago, the very same man that had shot him and would likely kill him given the chance, was still free.  
  
“We’ll have to place him in protective custody.” The commissioner concluded, crossing his arms over his chest. He currently leaned back against the closed door to the man in question’s hospital room. The two men he’d appointed to stand guard still held their post in the hall, while himself, Yoruichi and Ichigo stood within. After some convincing on Ichigo’s part, they’d decided upon discussing options with the young witness openly, rather than deciding what would happen to him and simply telling him. The detective was convinced that including the lad and giving Shiro that little bit of extra presence -the ability to speak up, to add his input or even refute should he wish too- would be a strong step in the right direction for the once-slave to begin picking himself up again. Maybe allowing him the power to decide what happened to him would help him find some semblance of who he’d once been.  
  
Part of Shiro realized that being included was odd, that this wasn’t exactly a regular procedure and he’d been grateful for it, listening to Ichigo explain what this particular visit was about while he’d watched the commissioner and the woman hybrid enter his room. Golden eyes set in dark but beautiful features had caught his gaze and held. Recognition had lit through Shiro’s mind just as Yoruichi had flashed him a small but pretty little smile and greeted him. He remembered seeing her in the estate, just before he’d passed out.  
  
As it was now, after they’d talked a bit about how his recovery was going and approximate dates for his release, Shiro sat upon the edge of the hospital bed he’d occupied for the past week. He wiggled sock clad toes against the cool tile floor as he furrowed his brows and looked from the commissioner, to Ichigo.   
  
“What’s he mean?” Asked the colorless, recovering young man, a hand pressed lightly, protectively to his stomach and the soreness of his abdomen. Of course Shiro understood what the idea behind protective custody was, anyone who had ever seen a cop show on television knew.  
  
Ichigo didn’t look over at him right away, his gaze locked on his superior's. He knew the older man was right though, there was really no other option. After a moment ticked by, he turned to look at the lad he sat beside. “It wont be that bad...and it wont be forever. We’ll select a house for you to live in, screen the area and assign a few different people keep watch and make sure you’re safe.”  
  
Shiro’s frown only grew.  
  
“We can find a location on the west side, closer to our station so that we wont have to worry about the crooked cops Jaegerjaquez has in the eastern and northern stations.” The commissioner was mostly just thinking about loud. A location wouldn’t actually be selected until they were positive when the witness would be released from the hospital. He and everyone else hoped that Jaegerjaquez would be found before then. Though in all honesty, they were beginning to have their doubts.  
  
Several thoughts flooded Shiro’s mind as he listened. The idea of essentially being babysat by someone he didn’t know, being watched by a stranger, didn’t appeal to him. He’d had enough of strangers and new people to last him a while... But there was one thing bothering him more than that and gold on black eyes roamed back toward the commissioner before returning to Ichigo again. “Why...? Do we really need ta do all that?”  
  
The room fell quiet, a tenseness settling over the occupants as Shiro drew his gaze back around toward the commissioner and Miss Yoruichi for a moment. When no answers seemed forthcoming, ashen brows furrowed all the further. “What ain’t ya tellin’ me?”  
  
It was Yoruichi who spoke up. Ichigo hadn’t been at the estate, but rather in the back of the ambulance with his lead witness at the time, so she felt it didn’t need to be Ichigo’s responsibility to explain. “After you had been carried from the estate, we detained the doctor and continued to search for Mr. Jaegerjaquez. We can only assume it was with the help of his magic, but the doctor slipped his cuffs and escaped.”  
  
Shiro grunted a small sound, glancing down toward his toes for a moment, but didn’t seem all that surprised nor worried. Szayel was only really that scary when Grimmjow was commanding him.  
  
Yoruichi continued. “Up until that point, we had Jaegerjaquez cornered in the building. Though we were unsure exactly which room, we knew he had gone down to basement level after...” She motioned with a small, elegant wave of her hand toward the recovering young man. Shiro remained quiet, his eyes a fraction wide and his jaw tight as he redirected his gaze to stare at the woman. The pieces of what she was telling him were slowly beginning to fall into place. “We had a sizable group of men down there, preparing to storm the hold and begin extracting the men and women there... Sometime in the chaos caused by the doctor’s escape and somewhere between our force and the force in the hold, Jaegerjaquez disappeared.”  
  
Shiro swallowed, but remained silent. His widened gaze darted off to the side and caught nothing but the door like he expected it to be thrown open at any moment. The guards standing watch in the hall made sense now. “He-he’s not...he’s...”  
  
“We haven’t stopped looking-” Ichigo began, only for Shiro to continue, like he couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was being told.  
  
“He’s still out there? H-he’s not locked up...” A tremble ran through the young man’s colorless body as Shiro spoke. His jaw clenched tight as fear bubbled like acid in his stomach. His fingers curled against the loose fabric of the hospital shirt he still wore. “I-I...he’ll come here...I was his favorite... He’ll never let me go...” He all but whispered.  
  
“He’s not going to find you, Shiro.” The detective’s voice was stern but not harsh.  
  
“You don’t know that...” Shiro’s lilting voice was almost urgent, tinged with an ingrained fear, colored with a lesson that had been beaten into him countless times. “Grimmjow always gets what he wants... He always wins, he’ll come here. He’ll find me.”  
  
“He wont.” Ichigo tried to assure the man again.  
  
They didn’t know the slave trader like he did. Ichigo and the others didn’t know the big man as intimately and as horribly as Shiro did. They didn’t understand that Grimmjow never lost. When Shiro spoke, his voice rose to show his growing panic, his fear, because the slave trader was loose. Grimmjow wouldn’t stop until he’d either recaptured his favored slave or Shiro was dead and couldn’t talk. “But what if he does?? What if he comes here?”  
  
“The entire police force is looking for him.” The commissioner spoke up, observing the way inverted eyes had gone wide and how the witness didn’t let anything slip his frightened attention. The only motions that didn’t instantly pull his gaze in that direction were the small movements of the detective sitting beside the lad, as Ichigo shifted or spoke. “Even if he did manage to find out where you were,” the commissioner continued, “he’d never be able to come after you. He wouldn’t get anywhere near this hospital.”  
  
Shiro looked away from the commissioner, his inhuman eyes finding Ichigo again. The detective nodded and it was only then that the pale lad started to look a little less panicked and fearful.  
  
Later, as the day gave way to night and the sun sank below the horizon, after Ichigo and the others had left him to his rest again, Shiro would find the first of many sleepless nights. The nightmare wasn’t quite so over as he’d thought. The man that had put him through so much, the man he’d thought he’d finally escaped, was still free, still running the streets. Behind closed eyes, Shiro saw the monster that had been his tormentor for more than a year. He saw brilliant blue eyes and a cruel smile and the officers posted outside his door rushed into his room as he bolted upright with a startled yelp.  
  
Back in the commissioner’s office, the older gentleman and Yoruichi spoke in private as they discussed what would be done with their witness after he’d recovered enough to leave the hospital. Of course protective custody was the only real option, with Jaegerjaquez still out and about, but that presented other problems, things that had become obvious during their visit with the orange haired detective earlier that day. It was a delicate situation.  
  
“We aren’t going to be able to leave him in a house alone with a group of officers he doesn’t know.” Yoruichi leaned back in the chair she sat in, crossing one leg over the other as she looked at the man she’d been assigned to work with. “Can you imagine what that will do to his state of mind? It doesn’t matter which house we select, it’ll end up being the same as that estate to him.”  
  
The commissioner sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, sitting against the edge of his desk. He half nodded, knowing the woman was right. The young man had gone through more than enough already, and they were trying to help him, the last thing they needed was to make an already tough situation worse. Not to mention that when they finally found Jaegerjaquez, their case hinged on Shiro being well enough -mentally and physically- to stand in front of an entire court full of people, reporters, lawyers, the judge and even Jaegerjaquez himself, and testify. Trapping him in anywhere, let alone a small house, with a bunch of people he didn’t know, when he was obviously so on edge around strangers, wouldn’t do well for the lad or their case.  
  
“Have something better in mind?” The man asked, shaking his head slightly, “We can’t just let him be on his own. At the hospital he’s safe enough, but once he’s on his own? If Jaegerjaquez finds him while he’s alone, we can kiss the case and the witness both goodbye.”  
  
“Jaegerjaquez has the wrong address for Detective Kurosaki, right?” Yoruichi asked, though she’d already been briefed on the details of the case when she’d first joined and so already knew the answer.  
  
“Right. We registered a fake address under his fake license number. If it was ever checked into, Jaegerjaquez would have found a house in the next city over, half packed but still lived in.”  
  
“So send him home with Ichigo.” The woman suggested like it made plenty of sense. “He already knows Ichigo, he’s spent time with him, he trusts him. And Ichigo’s already figured out how best to go about talking to and interacting with him. You saw them in the hospital room, there’s an understanding between them.”  
  
“No. Not happening. Kurosaki’s not qualified for witness protection, he’s got no experience.” The commissioner’s voice took on a stern tone, putting his foot down and making it clear that the proposed idea was out of the question.  
  
It didn’t seem to affect Yoruichi much, however. “He wasn’t qualified for undercover work either and he did a damn fine job of that. And he may not have the experience for the job, but he has more experience in witness handling than any of us, in this case, and you and I both know that if something should go wrong, nothing will stop him from doing what he has to to keep that boy safe.”  
  
Unable to refute anything the woman said, the commissioner sighed again, shaking his head, but only a few days later, that was exactly what they began discussing with Ichigo. As Shiro’s recovery was assured and he began regaining his strength, arrangements were made.  
  
By the time Shiro was released from the hospital, he and Ichigo both had agreed upon what Yoruichi had suggested. Officers in plain clothes patrolled the block Ichigo’s house was located on for the three days prior to the witness’s release, insuring the location would be safe. Then, after the doctor gave instructions about how to continue to care for the lad’s injuries, Shiro and Ichigo were escorted from the hospital by a small but well trained group. Ichigo drove them to his house, where he usually lived alone while Shiro sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching the city go by. They drove in the opposite direction of the Shallows, where the estate had been and where Shiro had grown up. It was a part of the city the pale young man had never before seen and it made everything that had changed in a year seem all the more pronounced.   
  
But Shiro wasn’t naive nor blinded. He knew that more than anything else, what had changed was himself. He was not the same person he’d been before his enslavement and he doubted he ever would be again.  
  
“We’re here.” Ichigo said quietly, pulling his passenger from his thoughts as he pulled into the driveway of his home.  
  
Gold on black eyes first glanced at Ichigo, before turning to look toward the house. The driveway was paved and the small lawn was decent, though looked a little on the neglected side, but Ichigo had been busy lately and it was understandable. The building itself was small and simple, a one story home that didn’t stand out from any of the other houses in the area. It was the exact opposite of everything the large estate had been.  
  
Some part of that was a great comfort, but it was going to be a lot to take in and there was a lot he was going to have to learn to live with. A lot had happened in a year, all of which was meant to destroy him, break everything about him.  
  
 **••• The Shallows : nearly a month later •••**  
   
Blue eyes lit with fire, swirling with indignant, seething anger. Grimmjow curled his lip and flashed white teeth. His stance said relaxed, confident like he always was, but the corded muscle of his body was tense, ready. Fiery cyan panned from the man he faced to the towering assistant at the man’s side, and back. There was a hint of nervousness there, as Grimmjow feared what was coming his way.  
  
“This has nothing to do with you, Aizen.” The trafficker half growled out, his voice low. His gaze flickered back to the ever silent hollow that Aizen employed as his guard. The big creature simply watched him, his expression blank as he waited for orders. “Back off and let me handle it.”  
  
“You’re wrong, Grimmjow.” Aizen stated, calm as always. His inhuman guard began stalking a leisurely circle, moving around behind the slave trader Aizen spoke to but not actually drawing nearer the obviously nervous man. “This has everything to do with me. If they bring you down, it’s only a matter of time before they’re led to me.”  
  
Grimmjow growled a low sound, looking back over his shoulder and watching as the giant of a guard effectively blocked him in. He slowly turned his gaze back over to Aizen and sneered. Blue brows furrowed in a scowl as he raised his hands out to the side in a non-threatening way as he turned to see directed at him, the barrel of a gun that was held in Aizen’s hands.  
  
“So, like I should have been doing all along,” Aizen continued, flipping the safety off his gun. “I’m going to take over from here. My use for you has expired.”  
  
“Aizen...” Grimmjow grit out through clenched teeth. He took a step backward, but the quiet crunch of gravel from behind him reminded him of the hollow hovering back there. He was trapped, with no way out of this situation. “I can fix this...”  
  
“No need, Grimmjow.”   
  
The echo of a gunshot drowned out the slave trader’s pained grunt as hot led grazed across his ribcage and left a ragged gash in golden-tan skin. Grimmjow stumbled backward, teeth bared as he glared at Aizen from a slightly hunched position. There was as much hatred as there was pain in his features. He took an unsteady step backwards, one hand pressed to his abdomen, off to the side and over his ribs. His hand was quickly slicked with hot blood as it spread in a slowly growing stain across his shirt. His other arm was stretched out, hand dragging across the dirty brick of the building beside him as he took another step back and away.  
  
If that damn hollow hadn’t been there, he would have turned and made a run for it. Anything was better than facing Aizen at the moment... As things were, he was trapped between the two, alley walls on either side and no where to go.  
  
Three more shots shattered the silence of the dark night. Grimmjow collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap, breathing in wet, uneven breaths. Aizen returned his gun to it’s place and turned away like nothing had happened. His guard stepped over the slave trader, not sparing the bleeding man a second glance, and followed after his employer.  
  
Grimmjow was left laying on the ground in stunned agony, three bullets in his chest and the one that had grazed passed him. He choked on the effort to breathe, teeth grit so hard his jaw hurt. Pure pain lighting his spine, it took him a minute to drag in that first breath and when he did, a shuddering, broken sound crept up his throat. The small noise tasted like iron.  
  
With a bubbling, wet groan, the big man painstakingly rolled over. The sharp tang of blood filled his mouth as he pulled himself to his knees. He spit it out, thick, red saliva hitting the cracked blacktop below him. Using the brick wall of the alley, he pulled himself to his feet, chest heaving around hot lead. Fire burned his lungs and blood dripped down his toned abdomen under his saturated shirt.  
  
The blue haired man coughed around the liquid pooling in his lungs. He only made it a half dozen, shaky strides before he collapsed back to the ground, motionless, a dark pool of blood slowly spreading out underneath of him.


	10. Chapter 10

**••• The detective’s house : present •••**  
  
Hot water rained down around Ichigo as the detective tipped his face upward into the gentle stream of his shower. The room billowed with steam from the heat and all was quiet and peaceful in his home.  
  
It was nearly a month after Ichigo had more or less taken Shiro in. It had been under the premise of witness protection, but Ichigo had realized quite a while ago that he would have allowed the young man to stay with him even had he not needed the extra care and security. In the time Shiro had been with him, the lad had come a long way. He no longer jumped at shadows, and unexpected contact usually only brought about the slightest of reactions, just a small tensing of his body. He was still timid around others, more so than seemed should have been normal for the young hybrid, but being around Ichigo and realizing that most people weren’t like the people he’d met while enslaved had been a great help. It was an uphill battle still, but they were making leeway.  
  
Shiro had already been back to the hospital, where the last of his stitching had been removed. The doctor was pleased with how his wounds were healing up. Even the marks around his neck -from the collar he’d worn every night for so long- were beginning to fade, though it was likely they’d always be visible to some degree. Scars didn’t always go away, after all. Sometimes they had to be lived with.   
  
Ichigo had broached the subject that evening after they’d left the hospital and were back in the comfort and solitude of his home. He’d wanted to make sure Shiro knew that they didn’t define who he was, only what he’d survived. He’d wanted to make sure that Shiro knew there was nothing wrong with the few scars he would always have.  
  
To his complete surprise, Shiro’s expression had turned into a small smile as he told the detective that he didn’t really mind them. Nor had he minded having stitches for the first time and pain that had lasted for weeks after being shot. He’d laughed a bit, but confessed that it was almost relieving in away, because even though it hurt, it wasn’t the terrifying magic that had been used to heal him before. So in an odd way, the pain of slowly, naturally healing wounds was actually comforting. It was normal. It was welcome.  
  
Ichigo smiled a bit as he scrubbed his hands through his vivid orange hair, the locks darkened and weighed down by hot, clean water. It poured in clear rivulets down his bare body, wetting lightly tanned, smooth skin before washing into the basin of the porcelain tub. The drain was just a touch slow, and so he stood in an inch of warm, soapy water, but it didn’t disrupt the relaxation of a long, hot shower.  
  
In the past weeks, Ichigo wouldn’t have allowed himself the luxury of spending more than ten minutes locked in the bathroom, simply because it was impossible to tell when something would trigger his guest’s panic and anxiety. But Shiro had been making weekly trips to see a therapist, as the court had mandated after an evaluation to determine whether or not the pale man was fit to be detective Kurosaki’s lead witness. It hadn’t gone over well at first, and Shiro hadn’t been very forthcoming or talkative, but they were making progress. Ichigo could see the changes, even if they were slow and subtle.  
  
Just as the young detective was shutting the water off, wiping it from his face with one hand as he bent, a loud crash from the kitchen made him jump. He straightened, brows arched, and nearly slipped and fell as he scrambled from the wet tub. Water sloshed in the slowly draining basin and dripped from his still wet body and hair to dampen the tile floor. He automatically snagged a towel from the rack as he darted to the bathroom door.  
  
Flinging it open and dashing down the short hall, he rounded the doublewide, doorless frame that marked the entrance to the kitchen, managing to wrap the towel around his waist as he went. Holding it with one hand, he paused as he found Shiro standing stock still in the middle of the room, what used to be a stack of plates broken into sharp shards around his bare feet. His hands were still held out in front of him, like he hadn’t realized he’d dropped the clean dishes, and his eyes were wide, trained in the direction of the front door only a half dozen feet away.  
  
Another round of cheery knocking sounded on the wooden portal and broke Ichigo from his surprise. He frowned though, and looked over at the clock on the microwave. It wasn’t yet time for a member of the unit patrolling the area and keeping watch over the house to visit. Shiro must have known that too, because he didn’t usually react so violently to when the commissioner would make his almost daily visit. He’d grown used to that and expected it these days.  
  
“Shiro..!” Ichigo hissed in a low but insistent voice. He tucked the edge of the towel in as he moved in a silent rush. Gold on black eyes flickered toward him and Ichigo could see the deep, too controlled rise and fall of the lad’s breaths as he fought to remain calm. Motioning the young man back, he went toward the front door.  
  
Shiro hardly seemed to really take notice of the broken glass around him as he took a backward step and edged further away from the front door, like Ichigo had told him to do.  
  
Watching to make sure Shiro wouldn’t be in immediate view of whoever was on the other side of his front door, Ichigo opened the drawer of the little stand beside the door, where he put his keys and things when he got home. Pulling a 9mm from it, he quickly checked the clip and unlocked the door as the next round of knocking started.  
  
As he pulled the door open, hiding the gun behind it, Ichigo frowned, then looked down as the little girl standing on his front step began speaking.   
  
“Good evening, sir! We’re selling cookies.”  
  
Subtly tucking the gun in the back of his towel, Ichigo smiled down at the little girl. “Cookies? I’d love a box. Why don’t you let me go grab my wallet, and I’ll be right back, ok?”  
  
“Ok!” The girl said happily, smiling up at him and then turning to look back at where her mother stood near the sidewalk.  
  
Ichigo smiled back, “I’ll be just a second, ok?” and closed the door. He glanced over at Shiro, making sure the young man was alright, before he hurried down the hall to quickly slip on a pair of jeans.   
  
He quickly reopened the front door and bought a box, before sending the girl on her way. She skipped down his driveway to where her mother stood, before they turned toward the next house. Closing the door, Ichigo relocked it and put his gun back before he turned toward the kitchen again.  
  
Shiro pried his gaze away from the door and looked at him, swallowing thickly. With a small smile, the detective dropped the box on the counter and approached. He walked around the majority of the broken plates and grabbed Shiro by the hand. The paler of the two looked down at mess around him and seemed to sink a bit as a wince flashed across colorless features. “M sorry...” He mumbled, one corner of his lips pulling into a slightly helpless little expression, “I’ll clean it up...”  
  
“It’s alright, Shiro, they’re replaceable.” Ichigo told him, guiding the lad from the kitchen and away from the sharp, broken fragments. “Are you ok? Did you cut yourself?”  
  
Shiro shook his head in a negative, allowing himself to be led from the room. “I’m ok.”  
  
“Good.” Ichigo smiled back at him as they stopped in the next room over. He guided the still worked up man to the couch, where Shiro automatically sat down and scooted to make room for the detective to sit as well.  
  
Ichigo glanced at the laptop he practically had permanently opened upon his coffee table, expecting a message to come through any second. Every phone call he received, every email, every text, was monitored, recorded and screened by his team. Twenty-four hour surveillance on his home insured nothing ill mannered befell detective Kurosaki and his witness while they continued to search for the man they were prosecuting. Unable to move about freely for fear of being spotted and recognized by the wrong people, Ichigo even held his meetings with his commissioner via video call.   
  
After a moment, when a short but precise messages scrolled across his screen, Ichigo typed back an equally quick reply to let the team stationed in the area know that all was well, and turned back to Shiro. “You want to tell me what happened?”  
  
The pale survivor kind of shrugged, even managing to look a little less stunned and frightened, and look a little more sheepish. It was a good expression to mar those ghostly features and it reminded Ichigo of the sarcasm and fire he used to see in Shiro when he’d first met the young man. A lot had changed in all those months. Sometimes there were still hints of that fire, of who Shiro used to be, but those moments were scattered and short lived.   
  
“I was bored, so I figured I’d try ta clean up the dishes from earlier b’fore ya got outta the shower.” He rolled oddly inverted eyes a bit and Ichigo couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped. How ironic that he’d been trying to clean only to make more of a mess. After the short pause, Shiro continued, looking serious again. His eyes didn’t quite meet Ichigo’s, “I-I thought I heard somethin’, um...gunshots, actually...”  
  
Ichigo’s eyes widened as he automatically cast a quick glance around, despite that they were inside.  
  
“So I kinda froze.” Shiro continued quietly, that hint of timidness back to his distorted voice, “Then the knock on the door, and...” Shiro trailed off, motioning back in the direction of the kitchen. It went unsaid like it always did, Shiro never really made mention of it anymore, but Ichigo knew he was still terrified that Jaegerjaquez would find him one day.  
  
“Did the gunfire sound close?” Ichigo asked, pulling his phone from the table. If his number flashed across the commissioner’s caller ID, the older man would pick up instantly and his team would be alerted. He could have backup in the area in less then ten minutes if they needed it. He’d been told and they’d all agreed; don’t take any chances.  
  
Shiro shook his head, “No, they sounded far away, like an echo. Maybe I was just hearin’ things. Or that kid knockin’ on the neighbor's door or somethin’. I-I shouldn’t a let it sca-” He stopped mid-word to switch how he was saying what he was trying to express. “I shouldn’t a reacted like that.”  
  
As much progress as Shiro was making, he still had a long road ahead of him, it seemed. There was a lot of damage to try to reverse. They said time healed everything, but what happened when time had been the greatest enemy? Shiro had sustained more than a year’s worth of trauma, of physical, mental and emotional injury, day after day without pause. How much time would it take to heal that?  
  
Shiro started to stand, his long, white hair loose and framing his features. “I’m gonna go clean that up now.” He said quietly.  
  
Ichigo just barely touched his wrist to halt him as he too stood. Light touches in neutral places; he was always careful when, where and how he touched the young man. “It’s alright, Shi, I’ll take care of it.”  
  
The young mixbreed paused for a moment, before giving a small nod. Then he turned in the opposite direction to head further into the house, where the spare room that had been converted into a second bedroom was located.   
  
Ichigo grabbed a broom from the closet in the hallway before going back into the kitchen. He wasn’t surprised that Shiro hadn’t put up much of a fight about who would clean the broken dishes, it just wasn’t how he was, but he’d still recognized the look that had filled golden eyes. He’d seen more than enough of it to recognize when one of Shiro’s good days was beginning to turn south. Pausing just inside the doorway that led into the kitchen, Ichigo watched over his shoulder as the colorless lad in his care disappeared into what had become his room.  
  
Entering his room, Shiro nudged the door closed with the tips of his fingers, but not far enough to latch shut. He stood motionless for a few seconds, his gaze trained across the room but his eyes saw very little of what laid there. They locked on the reflection of themselves in the full length mirror that hung on the windowless wall. Ashen brows furrowed as Shiro’s jaw clenched, hands fisting at his sides to match.  
  
The pale young man crossed the room with slow, deliberate motions, his gaze never leaving the mirror as he studied himself. Once standing hardly more than a foot away, he slowly reached up, twisted his fingers in long, silken strands before combing through the locks in his hand. He watched his reflection do the same. On impulse, his hands shot down to the hem of his shirt, tugging the loose, dark material up. The smallest of sneers curling his lip for the briefest of moments, he yanked the shirt over his head and fisted it in his hand at his side. Holding the material, arm hanging limp, he trailed the fingers of the other hand over the still red and discolored, but closed and healing mark that showed he’d been shot. The dark, ragged stitching was gone and the deep bruising of damaged flesh and muscle was fading. His body was mending, but his mind was having trouble keeping up. He knew it was. He knew he wasn’t right, that he wasn’t really himself still.  
  
Golden eyes flickered back upward again, catching his reflection’s gaze and seeing the way his features still looked drawn and shadowed. He never used to look like this. He was getting as much sleep as he could possibly ever need. He ate well, the same healthy and balanced diet Ichigo -a trained and successful law enforcer- followed. He’d even begun working out a little. The doctor said he was in remarkable shape, all things considered, but the face that stared back at him still looked worn and tired.   
  
Used.   
  
It was a whisper in the back of his mind, echoing through his skull and the voice was a familiar, grating tone.  
  
Shiro’s brows furrowed further and the tiniest hint of anger bubbled uncomfortably in his gut as his vision blurred slightly and he saw the beginnings of tears well up in his reflection’s eyes. His discolored tongue poked out to wet porcelain lips as the toned muscle of his abdomen reflexively clenched with the effort to stop the pitiful sound that tried to crawl from his lungs. When the first tear fell, it was hot and salty and bitter as it streaked his pale cheek. Reaching up, Shiro angrily wiped it away, swallowing as an uncomfortable lump rose in his throat and made his teeth clench again.  
  
Movement from behind him caught his attention in the mirror. He watched as his door was slowly, carefully pushed open. Ichigo stepped in, pausing just inside the room to look at Shiro’s reflection over his bare shoulder. Shiro’s gaze edged away from the detective’s, going back to his own. His hand went back to his features, fingertips just barely touching the smooth skin over his cheekbone.  
  
“I’m startin’ ta look like me again,” Shiro said quietly, his distorted voice watery, barely a whisper. His fingertips dragged down his features, all the way to his jaw, before his hand fell to his side again and he stood as if lost. “but I don’t feel like me.”  
  
Ichigo’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly as his brows pulled together in an almost pained expression. He stepped further into the room and when Shiro didn’t tell him to leave, he crossed the room in it’s entirety until he stood almost directly behind the pale lad. “You’ll get there, Shiro. It’ll get better.”  
  
“No, it wont.”  
  
“It will. It’ll take time, but-”  
  
“No!” And Shiro turned on him, whirling around to face the detective. Mere inches separated the two men as pale lips pulled back to bare teeth in an expression that would have been fear inspiring had the look in those gold on black eyes not been so fragile and pained. “Ya don’t understand.” Shiro hissed through clenched teeth and jaw. “Ya don’t know. Nobody does. They can’t. It’s not just gonna go away. I’m not just gonna come back, there’s nothing left! I r’member...what I used ta be like, who I used ta be. I r’member what I was b’fore and tha’s dead. I’m dead. I-I’m not...me...”  
  
The last word in Shiro’s short lived, rushing tirade was so small, so broken, that it very nearly brought tears to Ichigo’s eyes. He snagged Shiro’s hand, ignoring the very small flinch that accompanied his sudden actions, and pressed the palm of Shiro’s hand over the lad’s own bare chest. He held it there, his fingers threaded through Shiro’s and his palm laid over the back of Shiro’s hand, and said not a word for a long minute.  
  
He could feel the erratic beat of the hybrid’s heart that followed the small burst of emotion and adrenaline even through Shiro’s hand. He could feel it pound steady and strong against the young man’s chest and he knew Shiro felt it too. When the lad said nothing, and his head shook in a broken, uneven, barely there way, Ichigo pulled Shiro against himself, wrapping his arms gently but firmly around slightly trembling shoulders.  
  
Once his hand had been released, Shiro pulled it away from his chest, away from the too rhythmic, too lively beat he found below it. It almost made him feel sick and he wasn’t even sure why. The shirt fell from his other hand to land in a heap on the floor beside him.  
  
“I don’t want it to...” He whispered so quietly he wasn’t even sure Ichigo would hear him, despite that his head rested on the detective’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure he cared if the more colorful man heard him though. He wasn’t sure about a lot of things, including if his own heartbeat was a comfort or only made him ache worse. “I don’t want it to anymore.”  
  
“Don’t say that, Shiro.” Ichigo whispered back, and if the prickle of hot tears behind his eyes grew stronger, he ignored it. “You’re alive. You’re strong. You’ll get through this.”  
  
“I don’t think so, Ichigo... I don’t think I can anymore.” The smallest of sniffles interrupted Shiro, as he fought with himself to stay composed and calm. To keep from crumbling any more than he’d already been broken down. “Y-you don’t understand... I can’t shut it off, I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout everythin’ that happened, ‘bout how I’m supposed ta be gettin’ better. ‘Bout how this is supposed ta be gettin’ easier. But it’s not. It hurts. I hurt. I’m broken and-and... No shower in the world will make it go away. It don’t matter how long I sit in there, or how much soap I use or how many times I scrub till my skin hurts. It wont go away...”  
  
A desperate, but silent breath made Shiro’s chest heave against Ichigo’s and the detective wasn’t so surprised when he felt hot tears drip to his still bare collarbone and slide down his chest. His hold on the young man only tightened all the further.  
  
“Maybe it wont go away, Shiro.” He said quietly, one hand moving up to brace against the back of the struggling man’s head. “Nothing can change what happened, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t get past this. It doesn’t mean that you can’t be yourself, be alive and happy. You’re no less of a person than you were before, you’re no less yourself. It’s just an injury that’s going to take a little longer to heal than the physical ones.” He pulled back slightly, hands moving to brace on either side of ashen features and gently guide Shiro’s gaze toward his own. “You are still you. He can’t take that away.”  
  
Pale brows furrowed as a few more tears streaked down to run over Ichigo’s fingers. Shiro’s nostrils flared as he clamped his jaw and kept his crying silent. When he swallowed harshly, thickly, Ichigo continued.  
  
“You’re not dirty either.” And the detective’s voice was steely, despite how quiet and soothing it was. “You’re not disgusting or used or worthless. You’re no less then you were before.”  
  
They were things he’d heard before. They were things he tried to tell himself on a regular basis, but they still meant so much more coming from Ichigo. He trusted Ichigo. He knew Ichigo would never hurt him or lie to him. “Wh-why’re ya doin’ this?” He asked in a trembling voice, “Ya’ve already done so much for me, Ichigo, I-I don’t understand...why’re ya so patient with me? Why don’t ya look at me the way everybody else does? Why don’t see how pathetic and br-”  
  
It was Ichigo’s turn to cut Shiro off, this time, and he tugged the young man back against him in a tight but still gentle hug. “Because I care about you, Shiro. Because you mean more to me than I could ever tell you.”  
  
A choked, raw sound finally escaped from deep within Shiro’s lungs as his tears washed anew across Ichigo’s tanned shoulder. The hybrid gave up on keeping himself together then, and shook his head in a helpless negative as he cried, hating everything he’d become. Ichigo pulled him tighter, wrapped one arm around shaking shoulders and threaded the hand of his other through long, feathery locks. He pulled Shiro’s features close to his body, cradling the pale lad’s head against his shoulder.  
  
Shiro turned slightly and buried his features against the detective’s neck as he let everything wash through him, as so much built up, drowning emotion and fear and sorrow and a thousand other things flooded his body and clawed at his mind. As he sobbed so hard he could hardly breathe, his hands finally rose from where they’d hung limply at his sides and his fingers found Ichigo’s abdomen, but the detective was still shirtless from the shower he’d been interrupted during and that made clinging hard, so ever so slowly, as if timid even through his emotional release, his arms traveled around to circle Ichigo’s torso.  
  
On a whim, like it was just a natural thing to do, Ichigo turned his head toward Shiro and unthinkingly pressed his lips to the warm skin of the man’s temple in a sweet and innocent kiss. It was meant to be a comforting gesture, but the moment his mind caught up to what he’d done, Ichigo stiffened, almost dreading to know how the lad would react. It was such an innocent thing, but after what Shiro had gone through, it was hard to say if it would be too intimate, too much.  
  
To the more colorful man’s complete surprise and relief, a small, fragile little chuckle interrupted Shiro’s sniffling. Pulling one arm from around Ichigo’s back, Shiro reached up between them to rub at the moisture that wetted his features. He took a deep, even breath and swallowed as his tears finally began to quell.  
  
Ichigo pulled him back a bit and with the pad of his thumb, helped Shiro with his task, clearing away the last of the lad’s tears. A small smile quirked one corner of Ichigo’s lips as he searched inhuman but beautiful eyes.  
  
“No one’s ever done that b’fore...” Shiro said. His voice was quiet, raw and heavy from his crying, but not quite a brittle as it had been only a few minutes ago, not quite as broken.  
  
Ichigo’s brows shot to his hairline as the statement settled in. Sometimes it was easy to forget how young Shiro was, or at least how young he’d been when he’d been captured. He wouldn’t ask, couldn’t, but Ichigo wondered how what Shiro said was even possible. With all the things the lad had gone through while being enslaved against his will, it seemed very unlikely.  
  
Shiro snorted another small laugh, this time sounding much less amused and far more sardonic, before rolling his eyes so that his gaze didn’t quite match Ichigo’s anymore. He could see the question there, even without it being spoken aloud. He’d long since learned how to read people. “Course some of ‘em...kissed me, but not like that. There was always teeth and tongue and it was-it was...violent and...” Shiro paused, jaw tightening again, but he took another deep breath to calm himself, before shrugging a bit. “Never like that b’fore.”   
  
Never so softly, never so genuinely: he’d known nothing but hard, demanding gestures and cruel, cold touches while chained in that room. Ichigo was the exact opposite. Ichigo was gentle and caring, warm and not in the least bit sharp or biting. Not towards Shiro, at least.  
  
Smile growing, the detective tugged Shiro close again, pressing his lips in another soft kiss to Shiro’s forehead. “Does that mean it’s ok, then?” He asked against pale hair.  
  
The halfbreed hesitated, but nodded a small motion. “Yeah,” He answered quietly, and nodded again. “‘s ok.”  
  
It was such a small thing, but it was a huge step in the right direction. Ichigo was convinced that Shiro would be alright, that he would get through all this. The lad just had a few more inner demons to get through, but he wouldn’t have to do it alone.  
  
Turning them around, the detective led Shiro to the edge of the bed with a gentle hand just below his shoulder blades -a neutral area, just like always- where he moved to sit down. Shiro followed and lowered himself to sit at Ichigo’s side, and realized that they were facing the mirror again. But this time, it wasn’t one reflection staring back at him and it wasn’t just his own golden eyes that his gaze landed on. Ichigo looked back at him with warm, fierce and yet gentle brown eyes.  
  
“Do you remember what I told you before?” Ichigo didn’t need to clarify what before referred to, he knew Shiro would understand. There was hesitation from the man at his side, but he held the lad’s gaze in the mirror. “I told you I would do anything to help you.”  
  
Shiro lowered his head slightly, features aimed more towards his lap now, but his gaze quickly raised again to find Ichigo’s in the mirror. With the slightest of nods, he told Ichigo he remembered. The hand that settled carefully over his own was warm and solid, alive. The fingers that intertwined with his were long, strong, but nothing other than gentle and care was in the touch.  
  
“I mean it, Shiro. Anything.” Ichigo repeated, curling his fingers around the pale hybrid’s. He didn’t drop Shiro’s gaze, even though it was through the mirror while they sat side by side. He wanted Shiro to see both of them, together, to see that he wasn’t alone. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself, I’m right here and that’s not going to change.”  
  
The smile on Ichigo’s features widened a touch when, even thought the young man at his side remained quiet, pale fingers tightened against his own. A ghost of a smirk tugged at colorless features and even though it was small and easily wiped away, it was still reminiscent of an expression that used to be far more common. It was a hint of the old Shiro, a small sign that even though Shiro didn’t feel like it yet, he was indeed starting to heal.  
  
They sat like that for a few minutes, side by side and surrounded with nothing but a comfortable silence. Ichigo watched through the mirror as Shiro reached up to rub at his still tear-glassy eyes. “Tired?”  
  
“Mhmm, kinda.” Shiro muttered, tired gaze sliding toward Ichigo, the real one and not the reflection. Leaning to the side a bit, he once again rested his head against the detective’s shoulder.  
  
Ichigo chuckled a small sound, wrapping the arm closest to Shiro around the lad’s back and brushing through a few strands of long hair.  He rested his cheek against the top of Shiro’s head and smiled. “After all that, I think I could almost use a nap too.”  
  
He started to stand, intending to leave his emotionally worn out companion to his rest, but Shiro’s hand didn’t fall away from Ichigo’s and pale fingers tightened a fraction.  
  
“Stay..?”   
  
The quiet request took Ichigo by surprise, but then that evening was turning out to be full of them. Ichigo settled back down again and looked behind them at the bed they sat on, before his tawny gaze fell back upon the pale hybrid. “You’ll be comfortable with that?”  
  
Shiro’s jaw worked ever so slightly as he shrugged a single shoulder. “I know I don’t have ta worry ‘round you. B’sides, it’s not like I’d be able ta sleep for long anyway...so...can’t hurt ta try, right?”  
  
“Right.” Ichigo agreed, nodding a fraction even as a wince tugged at his features. It wasn’t something either brought up often, but sleeping in the next room over, Ichigo had been awoken more than a few nights when Shiro would thrash about with whatever haunted his nightmares, startled and desperate sounds, mumbled but no less sharp, crawling up his throat in the dark of the otherwise peaceful house. He had laid awake several nights, sometimes hours at a time, and listened helplessly while Shiro fought a battle he’d already lived through but hadn’t quite won yet.   
  
His therapist had given him medication to help him sleep more deeply, explaining that it was likely he had inadvertently learned through circumstance not to sleep too soundly lest danger should befall him while he did and so never quite made it past the stage of sleep where dreams occurred. She’d said it would go away with time, after Shiro’s mind had realized his body was safe again, but in the mean time, the medication would help. Shiro didn’t like taking it, though. The lad had tried the first few nights after it had been prescribed to him, but he said it left him feeling panicked and anxious in the morning, like he’d missed something. Ichigo was fairly certain it was more because it reminded him too much of the drugs the magic-user and Jaegerjaquez had forced upon him though, so he didn’t push it.  
  
So maybe Shiro had a point. Even if the lad ended up too tense or on edge to actually get much rest, trying a few hours of nap time together for once couldn’t be any worse than waking up each morning exhausted from a night filled with tossing and turning.  
  
Unwinding his arm from around lean shoulders, Ichigo scooted back on the bed. He kicked his bare feet up and settled down on his side, one arm cushioned between his head and a pillow. Patting the bed beside him, he watched Shiro turn where he sat, so that the lad faced him. A small, soft smile curled one corner of Ichigo’s lips, his warm gaze patient as he watched Shiro size up the seemingly simple, but daunting task of such an innocently intimate action.  
  
Shiro hesitated, really considering changing his mind, but his heavy, tired eyes coasted over to meet molten brown and the hybrid could see just how patient and understanding Ichigo was being with him. The detective was always like this towards him. He let Shiro pick what they did and when, no matter what it was; what channel the tv was on, when and how loud music was played through out the house. He was only cleared to leave the house, due to the risk of being spotted by Grimmjow or one of his coworkers, to go to specified places, but Ichigo even let him pick when he was feeling up to venturing out and they’d called to cancel a couple of his appoints before.  
  
So the pale man took a steadying breath and moved to lay at the detective’s side, mimicking Ichigo’s position and facing the orange haired man. It took him a few long minutes to relax, to let the tenseness and readiness slowly seep from his muscles, but like he’d told himself many times before, Ichigo was nothing to fear. Ichigo would never hurt him.  
  
After those few minutes, Shiro smiled and even scooted a bit closer, blinking with the effort not to give in to how comfortable the bed was and how surprisingly relaxed he felt at Ichigo’s side.  
  
His actions smooth and unhurried, Ichigo reached up with his free hand and pushed silken strands out of Shiro’s face, brushing the long hair back. Shiro’s hand came up to rest over the detective’s holding it where it had hovered and keeping it cupped to his cheek.  
  
“You’re warm.” They mixblooded lad muttered through a yawn, “And always so careful. I don’t really mind when ya touch me ‘nymore.”  
  
Ichigo let out a quiet but happy laugh, his small smile growing into a wide and genuine one that was rarely seen. For some reason, that handful of words was the best thing he’d heard in a while and the lad’s confession made his heart skip a beat behind his ribcage. “Not even a little?”  
  
“Mmm,” Shiro hummed a sound that was more sleepy than it was thoughtful. “Not really.”  
  
“Then is this ok?” And Ichigo scooted closer still, so that they were chest to chest. He gently wrapped his arms around the pale man and paused, giving Shiro that extra moment to adjust and to decide if it was still ok. When the lad only swallowed and reopened his eyes to hold Ichigo’s gaze, the detective carefully rolled them over so that Shiro lay mostly atop him, head of white hair resting against his chest.   
  
Shiro stiffened, breath held deep in his lungs, but it only lasted for a moment and he began relaxing against the warm and solid body below him. They once more settled down, Ichigo slowly, soothingly running his fingers through long, ashen locks as Shiro closed his eyes again, one hand coming up to rest near his features against Ichigo’s chest. A few, quiet moments later, Shiro’s breathing began to even out and what was left of the tenseness in his lean body fell away, his steady breathing warm and calm against Ichigo’s bare chest.   
  
The detective continued his soothing motions as he closed his own eyes, mind wandering through all the things they’d been through in the months since they’d met. When he thought about it, it really wasn’t so hard to see why all this was happening, why they were becoming more than just a man who needed protection and a detective who had volunteered, why they were becoming more than even friends. Shiro trusted him, had for months now. The pale, abused man had learned that he could depend on Ichigo, that he was safe around the detective and Ichigo would do anything to ensure that that never changed and that Shiro was never harmed again.  
  
And with that thought, Ichigo began drifting off as well.  
  
He was slowly pulled back into wakefulness not quite an hour later when he felt the figure snuggled against him begin shifting. He blinked his eyes open and glanced down to see that Shiro was still curled in sleep, but his chest rose uneasily, his hands clenched unconsciously into fists and his pale brows furrowed. Another almost violent shiver wracked his form and a small, regretful frown pulled at Ichigo’s features.  
  
“Shhh...” he soothed quietly, trying not to actually wake him. He cupped his hand against Shiro’s cheek, gently rubbing his thumb along the disgruntled crease of furrowed brows. “It’s ok, Shiro...it’s just a dream, you’re safe...I’ve got you.”  
  
Continuing his gentle, soothing actions and words, Ichigo was relieved as Shiro began relaxing back into an easy rest again. A small smile tilted pink lips as Ichigo rested his back head against the pillow, closing his eyes and content to continue his nap and let Shiro sleep while he could.  
  
Not more than a few minutes later, however, the computer he’d left out in his sitting room began chiming, the notification for an incoming call. The tune it played told him the number was from the station, which meant he couldn’t ignore it. It didn’t really matter anyway though, because the introduction of the unexpected sound, even though it wasn’t particularly loud or harsh, was enough to startle Shiro awake and the pale man jolted upright.  
  
“Just the phone.” Ichigo told him quietly, pulling himself up and stretching as he stood from the bed. Glancing back at Shiro, Ichigo headed toward the front of the house. He was unsurprised to find it was not only the station, but his boss.  
  
He quickly connected the call by tapping a key on his laptop, and dropped to sit upon the couch still shirtless, as he rubbed the sleep from his face. “Hello, sir.”  
  
“Evening, Kurosaki. How are things going?” The voice filtered through the speakers with a slightly electronic buzz, the commissioner’s features showing up on his screen through the video feed. The man sat in his office.  
  
“They’re going well for the most part, sir. He’s making good progress and the therapist and doctors have high hopes.”  
  
“Excellent. That’s good to hear. Listen, I have news-” But the commissioner paused and a brow arched as dark eyes slid away from Ichigo’s features to look off to the side slightly, at something behind the detective.  
  
Ichigo looked over his shoulder to see Shiro edging into view, almost timid to round the doorframe. He smiled, but his features tinted red at the disheveled state of pale hair, the telling clumsiness that followed sleep and marked Shiro’s movements. His jeans settled low along his slim hips, creased and rumpled from sleeping so soundly while wearing them. Not daring to look back at his boss just yet because it was rather obvious they’d both just awakened despite that it was the middle of the afternoon, Ichigo waved Shiro forward. “It’s alright, you can join us, Shiro.”  
  
“You seem to be growing quite close to the witness in your custody, Kurosaki.” The commissioner spoke through the speakers of the screen, his voice a controlled neutral tone. “Just don’t jeopardize the case.” But he didn’t really wait for Ichigo to react as the detective turned back to face the monitor, the less colorful male edging closer to stand at Ichigo’s side, beside the couch.   
  
“This concerns the both you, actually, so it’s just as well that you’re here, Shirosaki.” The commissioner glanced between the two of them as he paused. The expression marring his features was stern, serious as he continued. “We caught him.”  
  
A moment of silence stretched between the three men, the commissioner glancing between the pale witness and his detective as he gauged their reactions. A small but hotly burning fire lit behind golden irises as Shiro’s hand tightened where it had settled on the back of the couch Ichigo sat upon. The mixblood’s lip curled slightly, relief and fear both trying to bubble through his system.  
  
“An ambulance was called. A man had been found, gunned down in the street in the middle of The Shallows. He was rushed to the ER in critical condition, but stabilized last night. He woke up this morning and he’ll be undergoing surgery tonight. We were called after no identification could be found on him.” The commissioner paused, letting the information sink in. He knew what he was saying was a lot to take in, and that what he was about to ask was even more. “We know it’s him, but we have legal hoops to jump through... we need you,” He nodded toward Shiro “to come in and ID him for us.”  
  
Shiro took a small step back, ashen brows arching slightly. He glanced away from the screen, and over to Ichigo.  
  
“The commissioner and I will come with you, and you wont have to be left in a room alone with him.” Ichigo knew the rules of this type of situation, so he was confident as he reassured the lad in his care.  
  
“He’s still in the hospital,” The commissioner reminded, “in no condition to be up and moving. The police have already been there and he’s been immobilized all the same, handcuffed to the hospital bed he’s occupying. You wont even have to enter the room if you don’t want. You can see him through a window in the ICU room we’ve had him moved to.”  
  
After confirming who he was with the doctors, the police had had the blue haired slave trafficker moved to a private room, where everything could be kept quiet and where he would be unable to harm anyone else. He was locked in an ICU room, handcuffed to the bed, and armed officers stood guard twenty-four/seven, two inside the room and one in the hall. Jaegerjaquez was never left unattended, not even to piss. He so much as moved, and guns were drawn.  
  
“Ok.” Shiro nodded, looking back over at the screen and the police commissioner. “When do we gotta do this?”  
  
“As soon as possible.”  
  
“We can meet you there within an hour.” Ichigo said, glancing up to see Shiro nodding in agreement, before redirecting his gaze to his boss.  
  
“I’ll be waiting.” The screen went dark, the call disconnected without a farewell. Only moments later, the address to which hospital and the room number Jaegerjaquez was being kept in flashed across the screen.  
  
Ichigo looked up at his companion, “Ready to finally put an end to all this?”  
  
And Shiro nodded a single, firm motion, something fiery and solid simmering in his gaze for the first time in a very long time.


	11. Chapter 11

**••• The detective’s house : present •••**  
  
The two changed in record time, Ichigo slipping into something more professional that included his badge and holster, while Shiro tugged his shirt back on and slipped into a pair of shoes. For little more reason than out of spite, Shiro combed his long hair back into a neat tail. Grimmjow had always liked to yank on it, using it to keep Shiro arched and mostly still. A lot of people had, but the idea of seeing Grimmjow again made finding  a pair of scissors tempting, made his gut tighten uncomfortably, so he settled for tying it back where it would be out of the way, where it wouldn’t be loose and easily caught hold of, despite that he knew the slave trader would be handcuffed to a hospital bed and surrounded by armed guards.  
  
Ichigo snagged his phone from the coffee table on the way by and the two left. Half a block from his home, an unmarked cruiser pulled out behind Ichigo, letting the detective know his team had heard the news as well. At his side, his passenger sat quietly, pale hands fisted in his lap so tightly the lad’s knuckles stretched colorless skin almost harshly, but Shiro’s jaw was set, his features determined.  
  
By the time the thirty minute drive was over and they arrived at the hospital Jaegerjaquez was being held at during his recovery, the commissioner was standing in the lobby waiting for them. The older man nodded in greeting, handing detective Kurosaki a file. They didn’t waste any time before turning and heading, unescorted, deeper into the hospital.  
  
Halfway down the hall that led to Jaegerjaquez’s room, deep, rough laughter rang through the corridor and Shiro’s steady pace faltered, his movements hitching mid-step. His gold on black eyes widened just slightly and, standing a step in front of him now, the two law enforcers paused as well, turning back to look at him with varying degrees of worry and appraisal.  
  
Shiro was there to verify the man’s identity, but he didn’t need to see him to know that the man they’d found was indeed Grimmjow. He would never forget that voice. “It’s him.” He muttered to the men watching him.  
  
“How can you be sure? At least take a look. Just through the window.” The commissioner bid.  
  
“It’s not a laugh ya forget...” Shiro hesitated, a small tremor running down his spine, but began walking again. He’d agreed to this, so that Grimmjow could finally be put away, so that he would finally get what was coming to him, and Shiro wasn’t going to back down now.  
  
They approached the room, the door cracked just slightly, and stopped. The colorless witness swallowed, looking straight ahead for a moment, before slowly turning his gaze towards the window that allowed visitors to look into the ICU room. His features remained remarkably controlled, despite that his chest rose and fell at a slightly elevated pace. He flinched, but quickly recovered when a warm hand found his own, pale fingers wrapping with a nearly harsh strength back around Ichigo’s.  
  
Inside the room, the dark skinned hybrid, Yoruichi, stood near the foot of the bed Jaegerjaquez occupied. His features were more pale than Shiro remembered and a blanket had been pulled up to his chest, hiding most of the thick, sterile white bandaging wrapping his chest and abdomen. His big hands were held out to either side, cuffed to the rails of the bed to keep him in place should he find the strength or desperation enough to make the effort to leave. Blue hair fell limply in the man’s face and tubes and wires led from him to various machinery at the bedside, but those cynical, cold blue eyes were bright and lively as always.  
  
Jaegerjaquez laughed again, head tipping back slightly. Standing before him, Yoruichi crossed her arms over her chest, a small but somewhat strained smile on her pretty features as she put up with the big man. She hadn’t been in the room with him more than a few minutes and she could already see what made him so successful at what he did. Or used to do, rather.  
  
“You’re a lot prettier than Mr. Kurosaki,” Grimmjow informed after his laughter had died away. A strained, stifled cough worked free from his damaged lungs, blue eyes narrowing in a wince. “but it’s going to take a lot more than that fake little smile.”   
  
“That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me where to find him. You don’t even have to say another word, Mr. Jaegerjaquez-”  
  
“Please, call me Grimmjow.” The bedridden trafficker corrected in a surprisingly smooth voice.  
  
Yoruichi continued as if she hadn’t heard him interrupt her. “You would be doing yourself a favor. Giving yourself a bit of leeway in the eyes of the court.” She shrugged like it hardly bothered her, and really, why should it? She hoped the bastard got the harshest sentence they could possibly push for. “Either way, you’re going to jail and so is he. We have a witness that’s more than willing to testify against both you and Aizen.”  
  
The blue haired man snorted a laugh, his handsome features pulling into a wide grin that bared his teeth.  A single brow arched a bit, something vivid and glittering swirling in cyan eyes.   
  
“Ah, so the pretty little thing survived after all.” That intense gaze panned over toward the door, despite that he couldn’t actually see the lad he’d favored. Standing silently out in the hall, listening and watching, Shiro visibly flinched. After a few short moments of silence, nothing but the gentle, rhythmic hiss of the extra oxygen being fed to the injured man punctuating the quiet, Grimmjow continued, not pulling his attention from the door. “All that hollow blood: I should have known a gut shot wouldn’t kill the stubborn halfbreed.”  
  
Standing at the pale lad’s side, Ichigo curled his lip as a scowl pulled at his brow. His hand tightened around Shiro’s as they listened to what the big man had to say.  
  
“Does he still dream about me? Does he still cringe when you touch him?” Grimmjow asked in a chilling voice as he turned livid, fiery eyes back on the woman standing in the room with him. Yoruichi stared him down, matching that gaze with a cold, yellow one of her own. A cruel chuckle, deep and grating, reverberated in the man’s chest. “If you can get him at just the right angle, he mewls and purrs under you. Tell that Kurosaki kid for me. He’ll writhe and whimper and make the best expre-”  
  
“That’s enough.” Yoruichi’s voice wasn’t overly loud, but there was a sternness there that warned of dire consequences.  
  
Out in the hall, the abused man Grimmjow spoke of trembled where he stood. Ashen brows were furrowed over wide, horrified eyes. His colorless lips were peeled back, baring teeth but the expression was a pitiful attempt at anger. Instead, Shiro’s body language spoke of disgust, of fear and panic, of hatred and indignation, but not quite of rage. The slave trader’s voice rang in his head and he knew the big human’s words were true. He knew it had been the drugs they’d been pumping him full of, he knew he hadn’t been able to control himself and that it hadn’t been his fault, but all that was little consolation.   
  
But then, that was Grimmjow’s entire point. The blue haired man had a sneaking suspicion that the mixblooded creature was listening in on them, and Shiro always had been his favorite. He was just too fun to play with.  
  
“By the way,” Grimmjow began again, propping himself up on his elbows as best he could so that he could readjust how he was laying against the inclined bed. They’d left him with very little room to move, seeing that his hands were stuck out to either side. It didn’t much matter though, since nearly every move he made sent a wave of black, sickening pain through his body. “How is Nelliel doing? You know they were friends? Poor girl felt so bad for him, but she was a good lass, and knew where her place was.”  
  
“The girl is fine.” Yoruichi’s answer was short, but she knew he wasn’t really concerned about the once-slave’s well being.  
  
“Really?” Grimmjow’s surprise sounded almost sarcastic. “Because Szayel had gotten ahold of her right before you stormed my establishment and that magic of his isn’t easy to get around.” He was quiet for a moment, gauging how well he was getting under the woman’s skin. More importantly though, he was looking to strike a nerve with the halfbreed out in the hallway. He kind of hoped Mr. Kurosaki was with the lad. “She’s still unconscious, isn’t she? Or dead by now. Knowing Szayel, he made it so the only thing that will wake her up is him. And I know you haven’t caught him.”  
  
All of Shiro’s nervous, uneasy trembling came to a jerking halt as the lean muscle of his body snapped rigidly tight. His hand clenched so harshly that Ichigo actually grunted a small sound under the pressure and glanced over to see the disbelieving look that marred pale features.  
  
As if needing confirmation, Shiro turned his gaze toward Ichigo oh so slowly. The look on the detective’s face was enough to give him his answer; what Grimmjow said was true. “Why didn’t ya tell me?” He asked in a low voice?  
  
Ichigo’s features twisted into a sympathetic expression, “I didn’t know what to tell you...” He admitted, “The doctors don’t know why she’s not waking up. She’s alive, she’s breathing. She’s healthy. She’s just...it’s like she’s sleeping and they don’t know what’s going on yet.”  
  
The look in golden eyes was far more vulnerable than the expression that pulled porcelain lips into a thin, outraged line. But a small growl crawled up Shiro’s throat as he turned in a rush away from the detective and, before the commissioner or Ichigo could attempt to stay him, stormed through the doorway and into the room Grimmjow was being held in.  
  
The door was thrown open with a little more force than necessary. Yoruichi turned to watch him enter. Blue eyes panned over to follow. A smirk stretched across Grimmjow’s features as the halfblooded lad he’d captured and lost entered the room, a well covered hesitation as he stepped over the threshold.  
  
“Where is he?” Shiro questioned in a snarl. He didn’t bother putting a name to the man he sought information about, nor designate a subject. Grimmjow would understand.  
  
And indeed he did. The slave trader let out a short bout of deep, rumbling laughter. Features pulled into a wide, but mostly humorless grin, Grimmjow shrugged as best as the cuffs would allow for as a stifled round of dry coughing followed his laughter. The extensive damage to his chest made itself evident even through all the pain killers he was on, despite how well he hid it.   
  
“You think if I knew where the good doctor was,” Grimmjow began, his grin falling away as his too blue eyes pinned to Shiro’s own golden orbs with an unrelenting pressure. “I would be laying here waiting for them to remove the bullet still lodged in my lung?”  
  
If he’d known where Szayel was, or had the magic-user known where he was, he would have been laying in that dirty alley while the pink haired man dug the bullets from his body and reversed the damage done. He certainly wouldn’t have been laying there, bleeding out, for as long as he had. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be laying in a hospital, handcuffed to the bed right then. He would have been up and healthy again by now.  
  
Shiro curled his lip slightly, hands clenching into fists at his side, but he stood rooted to where he’d stopped half way to the bed. It was as if he couldn’t draw any nearer, like his body couldn’t physically handle it. Like a chain held him back, kept him from sinking black nails into vulnerable flesh.  
  
The very notion made his stomach churn. At that moment, Ichigo briskly followed behind the pale man, gently but firmly turning Shiro back toward the door with a hand on his shoulder. Even Grimmjow noted how the once-slave hardly flinched.  
  
“Ah! There’s the...what are you, anyway? Not a cop...” Grimmjow shrugged, because really it hardly mattered. “What you should be, is an actor. Wonderful job, Mr. Kurosaki, I would applaud your performance, but, well...” He held his hands up, pulling them to the lengths of the cuffs in a helpless motion.  
  
Ichigo ignored him altogether, and continued to lead Shiro from the room.  
  
When the door was once more closed and the halfbreed and detective were out of view, Grimmjow turned back toward Yoruichi and picked up where they’d left off at, before he’d gone off on his tangent meant purely to rile Shiro up. “You really think he can identify Aizen for you?” Grimmjow snorted a harsh laugh, “He was drugged out of his damn mind most nights. You’ll be lucky if he remembers what one client looked like compared to all the others.”  
  
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, Mr. Jaegerjaquez.” Yoruichi said shortly. “Aizen’s the one who shot you, isn’t he? You’re really going to protect the man that had been so willing to throw you out like trash?”  
  
Blue eyes narrowed on the woman, a low, grating rumble vibrating in his chest.  
  
Still leading Shiro away from the room Jaegerjaquez was being kept in, Ichigo was silent as they walked. The commissioner fell in line behind them, a frown tugging at his features. Had he known Yoruichi was already going to be there and questioning the trafficker, he would have had the witness wait. The plan had been for the colorless lad to take one look through the window, say ‘yep, that’s him’ and then he and Ichigo could go about their day. But Jaegerjaquez had opened his mouth and there was no denying that the man was good at getting exactly what he wanted.  
  
Shiro paused in his marching pace. Ichigo very nearly walked right into him as he sighed an lungful of air he’d been holding in. “What do I gotta do ta make my id of him official?”  
  
“You just have to fill out a witness statement.” The commissioner answered, “We’ll have the paperwork sent to Ichigo’s house and you can fill it out when you get back.”  
  
Shiro nodded, then finally turned to look at them. His inverted gaze panned over the commissioner in an almost dismissing manner, before landing on Ichigo. Gazes locked, the colorless man’s very expression seemed to implore the detective before he even spoke. When he did speak, it was a quiet request. “I wanna see her...”  
  
Ichigo stared back at him for a long moment, not a word being said as he studied Shiro. This wasn’t something he could deny the man though, even if seeing her would likely only be a painful thing. “Ok.”  
  
A doctor was found and the three were led to the room Nelliel was being treated in. A second bed was situated in the room as well, holding another figure Shiro vaguely recognized as having been a slave as well. Neither moved, as if asleep, just like Ichigo had said. They were hooked up to monitors that tracked their vitals and from what Shiro could tell, they read perfectly normal signs. But he was no doctor. He didn’t know.  
  
Golden eyes tracked the room before landing back on Nelliel’s mostly motionless form. Her chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths where she lay, a blanket pulled up to her chest to hide the hospital gown she’d been changed into. Her hands rested at her sides, the blanket tucked under them. Everything about her was unnaturally still.  
  
She was breathing, but that didn’t really mean she was alive.  
  
Shiro knew no one but the pink haired magic-user would be able to reverse whatever he’d done. But no one would catch Szayel, not alive at least. No lock could hold him, no set of handcuffs or bars in the world would keep him somewhere he didn’t want to be. Nelliel was breathing, but she would never wake up.  
  
The man turned away, silent, ready to go home.  
  
••••••  
  
In the end, Grimmjow’s surgery went well and the slave trader was expected to make a full recovery. After recuperating enough to leave the hospital, he was escorted to a prison cell, where he would await trial. He remained oddly quiet through out the entirety of his incarceration.  
  
A week before his court date, he was once more visited by Yoruichi and he agreed to spill everything on one condition; he got to speak with the colorless halfbreed that had brought about his downfall. Alone.  
  
Everyone in the force; Yoruichi, the commissioner, Ichigo, were all for refusing his offer. They would just have to go about capturing Aizen in more roundabout ways. No one was willing to put Shiro through that, but the colorless lad himself agreed and despite all of the protests he heard from the few people he saw on a regular basis, he allowed himself to be locked in a room, alone, with the man that had caused him so much pain. Ankles and wrists handcuffed, Grimmjow stayed seated in a metal folding chair as he was warned about staying civil. He ignored the guards, his vivid blue eyes focusing only on Shiro as the lad entered.  
  
The doors were closed and the two were left alone. Hardly five minutes later, Shiro knocked on the door holding him in and the guards opened it back up. Clearly nervous and on edge when he’d entered, it was with a determined, almost renewed sense that he left, like putting himself through the short meeting was going to help him put all that had happened behind him.  
  
He never told anyone what Grimmjow said to him, not even Ichigo.  
  
Two days before the trial, Grimmjow followed through with what he’d agreed upon. He told Yoruichi and her department everything they wanted to know. When they placed a recorder on the table that sat between the man and the officials, he simply glanced at it with a stoic gaze and crossed his secured hands on the table. He recited for them, in an even and unemotional way, every business transaction he’d had memorized and how to read the fake ones they’d found in his estate. He gave them the records he kept that pertained to Aizen and the business the two had done on numerous occasions. He told them where Aizen conducted most of his business when out on the streets, who he dealt to and bought from most often. He even gave them the man’s home address, phone number and what kind of cars he owned. He told them everything.  
  
The day of the trail, Ichigo wasn’t surprised when he climbed from the shower and entered the kitchen to find that Shiro hadn’t touched the breakfast the two had made. The pale lad was silent the entire morning, no matter what was said to him, all the way up until he was sworn into the court and seated at witness stand.  
  
Ichigo watched from the plaintiff’s table, seated beside the commissioner. He could see the nervousness that bubbled just below the surface as he watched Shiro’s odd, golden gaze coast through the room and land on Jaegerjaquez, but he could also see something solid and determined there. The young man wasn’t going to back down, he wasn’t going to crumble. He wanted an end to all this; to Jaegerjaquez, to his enslavement, to his fear and his panic and anxiety.   
  
Fire simmered in the blue eyes his locked with while Shiro answered question after question and spoke of the atrocities he had gone through. He couldn’t look away, like he had to make sure Grimmjow stayed in that chair, made sure the man didn’t move, didn’t come anywhere near him. At one point, the big man shifted where he sat and Shiro flinched back as he spoke. No one in the courtroom missed it. Nor did they miss the way he struggled through certain explanations and answers.  
  
The defense attorney called forth Shiro’s therapist and doctors, trying to build a case against the lead witness’s credibility and his mental state. It did them very little good and even Grimmjow knew it was a waste of time. In the end, he was found guilty of the crimes he was charged with. The idea of making him work off his charges wasn’t even discussed. To put the man into indentured servitude would be to set him free. A man of Grimmjow’s status in the slave trade would have quickly been boughten and either killed out of malice for what he’d done, or he would have bought his freedom with his near limitless funds. Grimmjow was instead sentenced to prison, where he would be locked away, out of reach and unable to harm anyone else.  
  
Yoruichi and her department went about building a case against Aizen, armed with more than enough evidence to obtain their warrant, thanks to Jaegerjaquez. It was debated that Shiro would again play a part in the case, but after confirming what Grimmjow had said while laid up in the hospital, they decided to leave the young man alone and finally allow him to begin putting all that had happened behind him.  
  
Szayel was never found. Nelliel and the other slave that had been discovered in the room near the slave trader’s office remained in the hospital, unconscious and in a coma-like state. Their conditions slowly deteriorated and there was nothing that could be done.  
  
Aizen, catching wind of Grimmjow’s survival, incarceration and ultimate betrayal, eventually fled the city. Luckily, Yoruichi’s devision had high enough clearance to give chase outside the city’s districts.  
  
As for Shiro, he still had a long road ahead of him, but he’d also come a long way. Grimmjow and Aizen had friends in both low and high places, so even had he been psychologically ready, being on his own wasn’t yet an option. So he stayed with Ichigo, where he was comfortable, where he was safe, and where he could get the care and support he needed to continue healing.  
  
  
 **••• The detective’s house : present : nearly two months after the trial •••**  
  
Outside, the city was dark and quiet as late night settled in. The sky was grey and foreboding and not a hint of the moon shown through the cloud cover. The first snow of the season blanketed the streets and sidewalks, covering the roofs of buildings and cars and it continued to fall in an almost lazy, but steady way that promised to continue well into the morning. Shiro still wasn’t much for nights out though, so it didn’t really matter that they were stuck indoors.  
  
Ichigo laughed where he sat on the couch. The television played across the room from them, a light hearted comedy movie that was paused every half hour for commercial breaks. The detective’s smile only widened all the further as, seated at his side and pressed comfortably close, Shiro managed to crack a smirk as well.  
  
Pale hands were wrapped around a hot mug of steaming tea and one of Ichigo’s arms was wrapped comfortably around lean shoulders. Earlier that week, Ichigo had finally decided it was getting cold enough to break out the extra throw blankets he usually kept stored in a closet and a fluffy, oversized, navy colored one was currently pulled over their laps and around their legs. Though being in only an over sized shirt and boxers, the blanket was more for Shiro’s warmth than Ichigo’s.   
  
Every so often, as the snow continued to fall in complete and peaceful silence, Ichigo would catch the gold of Shiro’s irises flashing towards the window. He hadn’t understood what was so fascinating to the man at first, but after nearly a half hour of pondering while they watched the movie, it finally occurred to Ichigo that this was the first time Shiro had seen it snow in more than a year. He’d been locked up in a windowless cell last winter, so really, it’d been at least two.  
  
Ichigo smiled to himself and decided that they were making snowmen tomorrow, after they woke up and had breakfast.  
  
By the time the movie was over, the mug Shiro had been holding was resting on the coffee table that sat in front of the couch and he’d pulled his knees up, still hidden under the blanket. He leaned against Ichigo and seemed rather content to stay there, one arm draped loosely over Ichigo’s toned stomach. Ichigo took a moment to marvel at how comfortable Shiro had grown in his company and vise-versa. At moments like this, it was hard to tell that anything had happened, that the pale halfbreed still struggled through cruel memories and still shied from unexpected contact.   
  
He had been working hard to get better, to grow. He was healing. And knowing that an end had finally been put to what Jaegerjaquez had been doing seemed to have greatly helped. It took a layer away from his fear, made it so he no longer had to worry about the big man finding him and let him focus his efforts on other things. In many ways, Shiro had won. There was still a lot on his plate, still a lot of things he’d have to get used to and have to learn to live with, but he wasn’t quite the fragile, broken thing Ichigo had carried from the estate, not really.  
  
Arm tightening slightly, Ichigo hugged the colorless man even closer and turned to press a kiss to pale hair, just above Shiro’s ear. The hand settled against his abdomen first tightened slightly, fingers flexing in the material of the detective’s shirt, before Shiro seemed to fidget a bit. Then, in a gesture that Shiro had never before showed in the time they’d known each other, pale fingers loosened and released the fabric of Ichigo’s shirt. Hand coasting upward oh so slowly, carefully, Shiro turned toward Ichigo as his fingers settled at Ichigo’s collar bone, then raised higher still to trail lightly down the side of his neck.  
  
A little taken off guard, Ichigo simply looked into the inverted eyes that didn’t quite match his gaze and let Shiro’s digits explore. Black nails, capable of being truly wicked when the need called, were surprisingly soft against Ichigo’s cheek. Careful fingertips danced in a nearly shiver worthy trail, following the curve of his jaw, as Shiro seemed to really concentrate on what he was doing. The muscle of the pale lad’s jaw flexed, brows furrowing just sightly, but it wasn’t a negative expression. Only a hint of being somewhat unsure, it spoke more of determination.  
  
Shiro didn’t initiate things often, and Ichigo knew this was the young man pushing his own boundaries, the ones he didn’t quite understand but that his mind insisted upon building all the same.  
  
When those careful fingers finally found warm, pink lips in a ghosting of touch, another smile spread across Ichigo’s handsome features under them. He turned where he sat, so that they more faced each other, his own hand reaching up to settle gently against the side of ashen features. He wanted to tell the lad that he needn’t be so timid, that if he wanted something, anything, he could have it. But he knew that to say such things would be to overlook the progress such a small act indicated. It would be to discard the work and fortitude Shiro had put into even the small things he accomplished.  
  
So Ichigo smiled and held golden orbs with his warm, brown gaze as he rubbed the pad of his thumb along Shiro’s cheekbone. After a moment, he leaned in, careful with the speed of his motions, and only paused when his lips were a breaths width away from colorless ones. “Is this ok?” He asked in a whisper, unwilling to put Shiro through anything he wasn’t comfortable with.  
  
Shiro nodded a shaky motion, not trusting himself to answer aloud. This is what he’d wanted, what he’d been silently requesting and he wasn’t about to change his mind, but it was still a big step. He knew Ichigo had wanted to kiss him, really kiss him, for a while now, but he also knew that Ichigo wasn’t going to do it without an obvious invitation and green light. The detective that had become his savior was far too kind for that, far too caring and understanding.  
  
And then the warm lips that had been hovering so near his own pressed against his and Shiro’s entire thought pattern was scrubbed clean. It was warm and soft and gentle. It was deep, yet not invasive in the least. There was no teeth, no tongue, not yet, and it was the exact opposite of everything he’d experienced before he’d met Ichigo, before he’d been pulled from his hell. It was perfect, it was exactly what he’d wanted. It was scary and powerful and wonderful and before Shiro realized it, a slight whimper crawled up his throat and his hands were clenched in the more colorful man’s shirt.  
  
Ichigo was smiling into the kiss, he could feel it and he loved it. Pale lips parted and Shiro’s discolored tongue just barely slicked across Ichigo’s bottom lip but it was enough to show that he wanted this, that it wasn’t enough and that he was ready for more.  
  
Complying, Ichigo’s tongue slipped from between his lips to find Shiro’s, then to slip past pale, petal soft lips as the smallest of gasps escaped the lad. Shiro pressed himself closer, almost melting against Ichigo’s chest and the detective wrapped thin but strong arms around him, holding him tight but not harshly. Shiro groaned a small sound into the growing heat between them, his tongue sliding against Ichigo.  
  
After a moment, he broke the kiss but he didn’t put any space between them as he panted against Ichigo’s lips. He practically slid into the detective’s lap, chest heaving with his elevated breathing.  
  
“Shiro..?” Ichigo breathed against him, wondering if this was really ok, if the lad was going to regret all this later. It all seemed rather fast, sudden.  
  
It was like the man knew the unspoke question and Shiro shook his head. His hands traveled up, braced against Ichigo’s shoulders as his inverted, swirling gaze locked upon the more colorful man’s. “N-not here...” He breathed, “...not here...”  
  
Ichigo nodded, understanding, and wrapped his arms tighter around Shiro’s waist. But still he hesitated because did the lad really want this or was this some sort of late, inlaid reaction? A learned response? A small growl filtered through Ichigo’s teeth at his own thoughts and he pressed his lips back to Shiro’s, feeling the heat in the other’s touch, in his kiss. Shiro wasn’t drugged, hadn’t been for months. This was real. This was really Shiro and it was completely different from the mindless, hazy need he’d shown while chained in the estate. This was passionate and heated, still scared, timid and raw but there was trust in Shiro’s gaze and genuine want in his actions.  
  
That meant they needed to make it to the bedroom because there was no way in hell Ichigo was going to let this be anything but perfect. Standing, the detective lifted Shiro from the couch and turned towards the hallway, but the lad was about the same size as he was, a littler lighter, perhaps, from his time chained up, but still nearly Ichigo’s size. So the detective settled him back on his feet as the blue blanket fell the floor in front of the couch, and grabbed Shiro by the hand as he led him back to the master bedroom.  
  
They made it into the room before Ichigo spun and wrapped his arms back around Shiro’s waist. His lips found pale ones again in a kiss that drew a small, watery moan from Shiro’s throat. Colorless fingers fisted in Ichigo’s shirt as he was lifted. Wrapping his long legs around the detective’s lithe waist, Shiro trembled almost as if cold but when Ichigo tried to pull away to check on him, to make sure he was still ok, the lad whimpered and again slicked his tongue along the detective’s bottom lip.  
  
Ichigo grunted a small sound and backed up a step, still holding Shiro up. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and they bounced as he stumbled backward to sit on the bed, Shiro in his lap now. They scooted back, further towards the middle of the bed as Shiro’s hands found the hem of Ichigo’s shirt. When the article was lifted, Ichigo lifted his arms so that it could be removed and their kiss was finally broken.  
  
Ichigo looked up into the lad’s eyes, took in the set of Shiro’s features and the way his normally ghostly pallor took on the very slightest hint of a flush. But Shiro didn’t give him much time to think about it as the man dipped and pressed his features close to Ichigo’s neck, breath hot and moist, pale lips soft and feathery where they brushed smooth, sensitive skin. Ichigo stifled a gasp, eyes a little wide with a mix of surprise, unsureness, and maybe a bit of concern. Seated on his bed and only half dressed, he settled his hands along the colorless male’s boxer clad hips, fingers edging under Shiro’s shirt to feel smooth, touchable skin.   
  
Nearly all of the bruising Shiro had sported from his trauma was faded to invisible, the wounds already healed. Most of his scars were dull now, hard to see, leaving only internal marks upon his mind rather than his body. The lad had come a long way in these past few weeks, but the memories, the learned fear and trauma hadn’t been easy to get past. They didn’t go out very often, not just because Shiro was still in protective custody, but also because he just couldn’t handle crowds of people he didn’t know. He still had nightmares and trust issues. And sometimes, if he wasn’t expecting it, he still reacted violently to touches from others, even if it wasn’t a cruel or inappropriate touch. No one blamed him though, not the doctors, nor the therapist, not even Ichigo. Especially not Ichigo.  
  
“Shiro...” Ichigo breathed, his one hand moving up to cup the back of the mixblood’s head, fingers threading gently through long, white hair. “A-are you sure? We don’t have to do this. We can wait. I don’t want to push you into anything...”  
  
The pale young man was quiet for a moment, finally pausing in his actions long enough to really think about what he was doing. His fingers were a little too tightly clasped over Ichigo’s shoulders, black nails starting to bite at tanned skin. But Ichigo didn’t rush his answer, nor comment on the sharp pinch. He was patient, like he had been while first getting to know the abused man.  
  
“I want this, Ichigo...” Shiro finally decided, his distorted voice a low whisper against the detective’s jawline. His grip loosened again, went back to something easy and unpanicked. He slowly eased his weight further upon Ichigo’s lap, long legs still wrapped loosely around the detective’s waist where the two sat upon Ichigo’s bed facing one another. Pale lips traveled at a slow pace, hot and gentle and almost careful as Shiro kissed and nipped and licked his way toward Ichigo’s ear. Darkly stained like that of a full-blooded hollow’s, his tongue found the shell of Ichigo’s ear and the detective shivered, arms wrapping further around Shiro’s waist all over again.  
  
Shiro paused, seemed to hesitate, before he let out a low, quiet chuckle. He didn’t pull away as he spoke in Ichigo’s ear. “I never done this b’fore...”   
  
It was a bit of an odd thought, considering what the young man had been forced to go through, but Shiro had never before been concerned with pleasuring those he was forced to lay under. He’d never participated in any sort of foreplay, in tender touches and slow, heated gestures. When under the weight of the drugs he’d been given, he’d only been able to concentrate on getting off, on sating the burning need that ached within him, so even the few clients that had attempted more gentle things had eventually given in to his needy actions and sounds and had rushed through this part.  
  
“I promise we don’t have to, Shiro...” Ichigo assured again. He wanted it, of course, he’d long fallen for the pale man when he’d been visiting Shiro weekly in his hell. But he would never put Shiro through anything the lad wasn’t ready for. He would never push Shiro into being intimate with him. “I don’t mind waiting until you’re sure. I’ll wait as long as you need. If you never decide you’re ready, that’s ok too... I swear, Shiro, I wont mind. I just want you to be ok...”  
  
A small, choked, whining sound crawled up Shiro’s throat and his arms wrapped tight around the back of Ichigo’s neck as he moved to press his pale lips against pink ones. Ichigo kissed him back. It was a burning, heated melding of two men, but it was also tender and gentle and slow. It was the reassurance they both needed at that moment.  
  
Thumbs teasing small circles against the points of Shiro’s hips, Ichigo was the one to break the kiss again as he looked up into burning golden eyes. He nodded slightly, as much to himself as to Shiro, and began working his hands higher up along Shiro’s abdomen until the young man’s shirt was pulled up and bunched around Ichigo’s hands. The halfblooded male lifted his arms and helped Ichigo tug the shirt free. It was dropped to the floor beside the bed and forgotten.  
  
Ichigo’s lips found the hollow of Shiro’s throat, his tongue gracing prominent collar bones. Hands threaded through the hair at the back of his head, tugged him upward gently but insistently. Ichigo once again smiled as their lips met in a heated way, like Shiro just couldn’t get enough of how he tasted, how he felt.  
  
His motions careful and a strong grip guiding his companion’s weight, Ichigo leaned over, resettling their positions so that Shiro lay on his back and Ichigo hovered over him. He pulled from the kiss then, taking note of the slight change in the pale lad’s breathing and the small furrow to ashen brows.   
  
“Is this ok, Shiro?” He asked, his voice a whisper. He always asked before doing anything, no matter how innocent it usually was. Their developing relationship was built around trust and Ichigo fully planned on keeping it that way. “We can switch, if you’re more comfortable with-uh-with being the one on top.”  
  
“No...” Shiro took a deep breath, eyes straying off to the side in a brief moment of hesitation before redirecting back up at Ichigo. “No, this is fine. It’s different than...when it’s you, it’s ok.”  
  
“If you change your mind, please tell me.” Ichigo whispered as his hand made a slow path down Shiro’s stomach, feeling the slight quiver of lightly toned muscle under his fingers. He watched the lad’s reactions, looking for any signs of discomfort, any signs that he should stop. When Shiro only shivered under his touch, Ichigo unwound the long, pale legs from his waist and slid backward on the bed, lower along Shiro’s body.  
  
Shiro gasped a stifled sound, body arching a bit, when Ichigo’s hand found his straining member through his boxers. The more colorful male worked the bulge there for a few moments, teasing in an almost gentle way, but it was more to give Shiro time to decide, time to back out if he wanted to. After those few moments, when Shiro’s surprised sounds started to turn into more needy, heated ones, Ichigo tugged his boxers down and off, throwing them to the floor and leaving Shiro lay bare upon the mattress. Not so surprisingly, Shiro didn’t seem all that shy about his sudden nakedness: he’d rarely been clothed when Ichigo came to visit him in the estate, seeing as he was supposed to be allowing the orange haired male to use him. So they both had become comfortable with his state of undress, used to it and unbothered by it.  
  
Ichigo quickly tugged his own pants off, before kneeling between Shiro’s legs again. Depthless, brown eyes aimed upward to watch the young man’s reactions, Ichigo wrapped warm fingers around Shiro’s erection. He stroked in a few slow motions as Shiro gasped, hips jerking slightly under a touch he hadn’t really felt before. Sure, clients had done much the same before, but never so gently, so kindly like they really cared to pleasure him. And even had they, it would have never matched the way such an intimate touch felt when he actually wanted it to happen.  
  
After a few exploratory strokes to let Shiro adjust, Ichigo lowered to swipe his tongue in a slow, hot trail up the underside to the head. When his head lowered, wet mouth slowly taking Shiro’s member in, a shuddering gasp stuttered from Shiro’s lungs and his pale hands fisted in the sheets at his sides. As Ichigo continued, working back up, then down again, Shiro bit back a moan, arching away from the bed. Ichigo’s hands trailed down his sides, across his hips until warm fingers danced in gentle, exploring touches along his inner thighs. But as they headed north again, edging closer to Shiro’s entrance, the pale lad whimpered a slightly distressed sound and all the muscle in his body went rigid, his hands shooting to Ichigo’s shoulders as he leaned up slightly.  
  
Ichigo glanced back up, pale length still in his mouth, to see the traumatized man fighting back panic. Pale, bare shoulders rose with Shiro’s deep, heaving breaths. Inverted eyes were wide, lit with conflicting fear and want. Ichigo pulled back just slightly, his hands frozen in place. “Too much?” He asked quietly, “You just have to tell me to stop, Shiro, and I will...”  
  
Shiro hesitated, took a deep breath as he looked down his naked form at the detective. He closed his eyes and took another deep, shuddering breath, before his harsh grip loosened and he reopened his eyes. Ichigo was patient with him, letting him take his time in deciding. Shiro was more than grateful for it, and after a minute of steadying his breathing and convincing himself that nothing bad would happen, that Ichigo wasn’t like the others that had ever touched him, he shook his head in a small motion.  
  
Ichigo gave him a small, knowing smile and nodded slightly. He went back to what he’d been doing; working his tongue and mouth over Shiro’s straining member, letting the lad loose himself in a pleasure he’d never before had the chance to really enjoy.  
  
Within a few minutes, Shiro dropped his head back, one hand clamped over his mouth and bared teeth, eyes squeezed shut as his back arched away from the bed. His other hand fisted so tightly in the sheets his black nails were slicing through cloth and Ichigo smirked around the lad’s cock as he worked, not that Shiro saw it. When warm fingers found his tightly clenched knuckles, Shiro eased his grip a bit and released the sheets in favor of clutching at Ichigo’s fingers instead.   
  
He writhed under the pleasurable assault like he never had before, mind and body buzzing in the best of ways. When the fingers of Ichigo’s other hand brushed between the seam of his entrance, his eyes flew wide and he gasped, but it was different. It wasn’t harsh and cruel, it wasn’t...wrong and dirty or forceful. He squirmed as a single finger breached him and the smoothness with which it glided told him somewhere along the line, Ichigo had grabbed a bottle and lubed up his fingers. The lean muscle of his abdomen went rigid, but he didn’t want Ichigo to stop.  
  
A second finger was added after a few shallow thrusts as Ichigo continued to bob his head up and down. He diligently watched for any negative signs and reactions as he crooked his fingers slightly, rubbing against Shiro’s inner walls in search. When he found what he was looking for, he nearly choked as Shiro’s hips jolted in a harsh thrust.  
  
“Ah! I-Ichi-go..!” Shiro’s lilting cry accompanied the jerk of his body. His cock throbbed from the duel stimulation. His hand tightened again, clutching almost desperately at Ichigo’s while his other found the sheets again. He keened desperate, pleasured noises, head thrown back in blissed out euphoria.  
  
He tried to warn the detective of his impeding release, but it came out as nothing but a moan as Ichigo continued his assault. The orange haired man didn’t let up as he worked his mouth and tongue over Shiro’s cock and throughly abused the lad’s prostate. His warning came in the form of jolting hips and throbbing pressure against his tongue. He pulled back, replaced his mouth with his other hand and continued to stroke Shiro’s length in smooth, slick motions. His thumb teased at the head of Shiro’s pale cock, the long fingers he still had sank within the other’s entrance pushing against that sensitive bundle of nerves.   
  
A moment later, Shiro lilted a distorted cry and arched away from the bed. The cry turned breathless as Ichigo harshly pressed his fingers further, grinding them against his prostate. White seed slashed across Shiro’s colorless stomach and spilled over to run down Ichigo’s stroking fingers. He instinctively thrust into the detective’s hand, milking his own release as his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip and he moaned.  
  
When Shiro finally fell still, collapsing flat against the bed again and panting, Ichigo let go and pulled his fingers free of Shiro’s entrance. He leaned forward, smirking a bit at the unfocused, dark look in golden eyes, and sealed his lips over Shiro’s in a fevered, heated kiss.  
  
Shiro kissed back and wrapped his pale legs back around Ichigo’s waist, using them to tug Ichigo’s center closer to his prepared entrance. He moaned a small, wordless sound, a silent consent to what he knew was supposed to come next.  
  
Ichigo pulled from the kiss and looked down into heated orbs with a telling look. Shiro nodded, his hands reaching up to trace the defined ridges of Ichigo’s belly and chest. Knowing the nod was a yes, the detective gently grabbed pale hips, lifting them slightly as he slowly sank his hard, aching member into Shiro’s body.  
  
The added stretch and the steel hard shaft that filled him pulled a low, drawn out moan from Shiro’s throat as he grabbed for Ichigo. He pulled himself up slightly, clinging at the more colorful male, arms wrapped tight around the back of Ichigo’s neck as Ichigo pulled back and slowly ground his way back in.  
  
With his next thrust, Ichigo leaned them both back again, so that Shiro lay flat against the bed again, but he stayed close, leaning over the mixblooded male. He let Shiro cling to him and soothed pale hair out the lad’s face as he thrust, his own face buried in Shiro’s bared throat. His breaths puffed out in hot pants as he pistoned into Shiro, the head of his member reaching deep and once more finding Shiro’s prostate. Shiro seemed to clamp down around him, the lean muscle of his body and legs doing much the same.  
  
Ichigo moaned into the side of Shiro’s neck. He winced slightly as pale fingers fisted in his orange hair, but he didn’t ask Shiro to let up, letting the abused man loose himself in pleasure, showing Shiro that it didn’t have to be painful or cruel, that sex could still be enjoyable, could still be about everything positive. That it could still be for love.  
  
“I-Ichigoo-” Shiro groaned in a voice so quiet Ichigo almost missed it. He pulled back just enough to look down at pale features and frowned slightly at the expression that twisted said features. It wasn’t quiet pained or lost, but it edged on desperate, on frightened. A single tear streaked down the side of Shiro’s cheek and Ichigo’s motions faltered, his brows arching, but he was quickly reassured that all was well as Shiro continued in a low, breathy whisper. “Thank you...”  
  
It was a showing of gratitude for everything Ichigo had done for him; for finding him, for respecting his boundaries, for being so careful and so understanding. It was for fighting for him, for risking his life to rescue him and not thinking him used and dirty and unworthy. Gratitude for saving him. And now for helping him heal, helping him battle his demons and learn to live with what had happened to him.  
  
“Hnng-Shiro...” Ichigo sealed his lips against Shiro’s in a deep, passionate kiss as he thrust one more time and buried himself deep as he found his own release. Shiro gasped into the kiss before relaxing into it and letting his darkly colored tongue snake against Ichigo’s.   
  
When the need for oxygen forced them apart, Ichigo rested his forehead against Shiro’s and searched the eyes looking back up at him. He smiled, trying to control his panting. They lay like that for a few moments, nothing but quiet, comfortable silence drifting around them. There was nothing for Shiro to thank him for, but Ichigo didn’t say that. He didn’t want to and wouldn’t dismiss the lad’s feelings, knowing they were important, because if Shiro was thanking him for coming to his aid, for saving him, than that meant Shiro was beginning feel like there was hope for himself again. He was no longer ready to give up, but wanted to fight and live on again, he wanted to heal, wanted to be ok.  
  
Shiro had been the one creature Grimmjow hadn’t been able to destroy, and he was finally beginning to think that maybe he really was still strong enough to get back the him that had been taken. And when he needed help, when he couldn’t support his own weight any longer, he had Ichigo.  
  
“Thank you, Ichigo...”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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